JFresf)  (SHeamnip; 

OR, 

&  3&efo  SHeaf  from  the  ®ltr  jFtellrB  of 
Continental  Europe. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/freshgleaningsorOOmitcrich 


FRESH   GLEANINGS; 


OR, 


a  new  sheaf  from  the  old  fields 
Of  Continental  Europe. 


i$5  *£fe.  JWartoeh/ip-*> 


cTWCcU5kfi>  3W^<*  %u>*£* 


'Ta  de  uTJkoi  bv  KareXaSovro,  tovtuv  [ivfifirjv  Troirjaofiai. 

Herod.,  lib.  vi.,  cap. 


NEW    YORK: 

(Eiiarles  Scvftnev, 

1851. 


:Dqi<? 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


Y  (fyc.h  &4^t 


•  •  »•••»• 


A    NEW  PREFACE 


WHEN  I  came  back  from  the  Old  World, 
Mary,  I  dedicated  to  you,  this  first  essay  of 
my  book-making  life.  The  memory  of  the  strange 
and  brilliant  things  which  had  met  me  beyond  the 
ocean,  was  hanging  upon  me  very  pleasantly ; — but, 
pleasanter  still,  there  lingered  in  my  mind  a  recol- 
lection of  the  sunny  hours  upon  our  farm-land  in  the 
valley  of  Elmgrove. 

I  am  not  sure  if  you  have  heard  it, — ^but  some 
readers  have  imagined  that  my  talk  of  harvesting, 
and  of  the  old  farm-house,  was  a  mere  show  of 
rhetoric.  You  know  there  was  nothing  but  honesty 
in  what  I  wrote  you ;  and  that  it  was  with  a  thrill  of 
pleasure,  I  had  no  desire  to  conceal,  that  I  wandered 
again  through  the  woods  and  fields  of  my  rough  farm 
Under-the-Hill. 


M111711 


vi  A    New    Preface. 

No,  there  was  no  rhetoric  in  my  talk  of  the  farm- 
land then, — whatever  may  belong  to  it  now. 

Then,  Europe  was  a  memory — a  blessed  memory 
lifting  my  heart  and  hope :  now,  our  Farm-land 
deserted, — the  oaks,  shading  a  silent  sward-land, — 
the  elms,  bowing  to  an  untrodden  lawn,  are  a 
memory  also. 

Well,  sweet  memories  make  up  the  pleasure 

of  our  life — for  they  nurse  our  hopes  of  sweet 
memories  to  come ! 

So,  it  is  with  blended  recollections — bright  and 
gorgeous  ones  of  European  temples  and  festivities, — 
gentle  and  soothing  ones  of  the  summer  seasons  at 
Elmgrove,  that  I  write  to-day  this  fragment  of  Pre- 
face, and  inscribe  again  to  you,  this  careless  record 
of  my  first  wandering. 

I  wish  it  was  worthier  of  the  world  ;  I  wish  it  was 
worthier  of  you.  But  such  as  it  is,  with  all  its 
imperfections,  I  am  certain  that  you  will  receive  it 
graciously  from  one  who  hopes  for  your  charity,  and 
who  is  sure  of  your  affection. 

I  had  thought  of  running  over  the  book  again,  and 
of  crossing  out  what  seemed  to  be  the  ebullitions  of 
boyish  and  pedantic  fancies.    But  I  have  not  clone 


A   New   Preface.  vii 

it.  I  wished  that  the  book  should  stand,  a  type  of 
my  first  feeling.  I  could  perhaps  have  made  it  less 
obnoxious  to  the  hard-sayings  of  the  critics,  and  have 
woven  a  little  more  maturity  of  observation  into  its 
careless  glimpses  of  the  old-world  life ;  but  I  have 
chosen  rather  that  it  should  carry  all  its  old  weakness 
with  it.  I  have  wished — though  it  may  seem  a 
selfish  wish — to  claim  so  much  more  of  your  indul- 
gence, as  would  suffice  to  cover  all  its  failings. 

I  know  the  claim  will  not  be  refused ;  and  I  know 
that  you  will  be  as  willing  now,  as  always,  to  excuse 
my  defects,  and  to  forget  my  errors. 

I  had  undertaken,  Mary,  to  write  a  Preface ;  I 
have  forgotten  myself— to  a  letter.  The  only  excuse 
I  shall  make,  will  be — to  print  it,  and  to  send  it  to 

you, 

"With  my  kindest  wishes, 

IK.  MAKVEL. 

New  York,  May  30,  1851. 


PREFATORY    LETTER 

Eo  Jtt.  W.  <& 

EAVEN    bless    you,   Mary,   with    richer 
sheaves  than  this ! 

You  know  that  I  had  learned  to  use  the 
sickle  on  our  farm-land  in  the  valley,  before  I  went 
away ; — and  could  bind  up  the  ears  at  harvest,  with 
the  stoutest  of  my  men.  Now  here,  I  bring  back 
chese  Gleanings  from  beyond  the  Waters : — I  have 
plucked  a  grain-head  here,  and  a  grain-head  there ; 
but  only  since  I  have  come  home,  and  only  at  your 
request,  have  I  bound  a  few  together  in  a  Sheaf. 

Here  it  is,  homely  and  rude  as  our  pastures  upon 
the  hills :  but  it  has  a  fragrance  for  me — dare  I  hope 
it  can  have  as  much  for  you  ?  In  the  binding  up,  it 
has  made  scenes  come  back,  and  stir  my  soul,  as  I 
thought  it  could  not  be  stirred  twice. 


Prefatory    Letter. 

Yet  is  it  useless — altogether  useless — the  effort 

to  make  words  paint  the  passions  that  blaze  in  a 
man's  heart,  as  he  wanders  for  the  first  time  over  the 
glorious  old  highways  of  Europe  ! 

This  sheaf,  Mary,  is  a  sheaf  of  tares. 

You  might  pardon  it:  but  there  is  that  sly-faced 
step-dame — the  Public — whom,  as  yet,  I  do  not  know 
at  all, — whom  as  yet,  I  tremble  to  face ;  and  I  fear 
greatly,  that  she  will  look  with  a  colder  eye  than 
yours,  over  these  Gleanings,  thrown  together  with  the 
same  free  and  careless  hand,  with  which  I  used  to  tie 
up  the  last  sheaves  before  a  shower. 

But  it  is  too  late  now  to  waver  :  and  if  I  have  not 
one  kind  look  save  yours,  I  hope  I  may  have  the  cour- 
age to  say,  in  the  submissive  spirit  of  Medea : — 

Eatur — nihil  recuso — merui. 


Jirst  Step  totuavb  tl)c  Continent. 


FIRST  STEP  TOWARD  THE  CONTINENT. 


Paul     Pry. 

Y  physician  said  I  must  quit  England :  so  I  put 
ten  sovereigns  in  my  pocket,  and  set  off  South- 
ward, through  the  summer  county  of  Devonshire. 

To-morrow,  thought  I, — for  it  was  the  last  stage 

between  Exeter  and  Torquay,  and  had  grown  so  dark,  that 
I  could  see  no  longer  the  pretty  cottages  along  the  way, — 
lo-morrow,  and  I  shall  see  strange  faces  and  strange 
dresses,  and  listen  to  a  strange  language  ;  for  by  ten  next 
morning,  I  hoped  to  rub  my  eyes  open,  in  the  Southern 
atmosphere  of  one  of  those  little  Norman  Isles,  which  lie 
off  the  Northwest  coast  of  France. 

In  the  exhilaration  of  my  spirits,  I  hinted  as  much  to 
the  coachman  ;  and  asked,  in  the  same  breath,  if  we  should 
be  down  in  time  for  the  steamer — a  fact  of  which,  how- 
ever, I  felt  as  morally  sure,  as  that  the  snug  coach,  Paul 
Pry,  was  then  and  there,  toiling  up  the  last  range  of  hills 
that  shuts  off  the  view  of  the  Channel  waters. 


4  Fresh    Gleanings. 

—  What  steamer,  yer  honor  ? — said  the  coachman. 

—  The  steamer  for  Jersey,  surely;  it  was  stipulated, 
wrier-  I  took  my  place,  that  we  should  not  be  too  late  for 
it. 

—  IZg^d !  that's  v  good  'un;  why,  there's  been  no 
steamer,  yer  honor,  these  three  months. 

The  serious  air  of  the  coachman  did  not  leave  me  the 
benefit  of  a  single  doubt.  The  first  moment  my  thoughts 
ran  back,  in  no  very  Christian  temper,  to  the  man  who  had 
booked  me  at  Exeter;  the  next,  I  was  inside  the  coach, 
with  my  feet  stretched  over  the  front  seat,  thinking  soberly 
of  what  should  be  done. 

To  go  to  Southampton  for  the  Mail  steamer  would  cost 
more  money  than  I  had  left,  and  to  cross  the  Channel  in 
such  vile  fishing-craft  as  might  be  in  Torbay,  would  ex- 
pose one  to  ten  thousand  risks,  and  I  had  decided  upon 
neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  when  the  coach  stopped 
at  the  door  of  the  Royal  Inn. 


A 


TORQUA  Y. 


'FTER  a  fortnight  of  rain  in  England — and  whoever 
■*-*.  has  been  in  England  a  fortnight  has  had  just  such 
experience — how  like  the  dawning  of  some  better  world 
upon  this,  is  a  true  sun-shiny  day,  when  the  sky  is  clear, 
the  air  warm  and  soft,  and  the  sea,  with  a  fleet  of  white 
sails  shining  on  it,  as  blue  as  Heaven  ! 


T  o  R  a  U  A  Y.  .5 

It  was  a  day  to  make  one  feel  at  peace  with  his  species. 
I  did  not  carry  with  me  a  single  vengeful  thought — not 
even  for  the  man  who  had  booked  me  at  Exeter — as  I 
walked  out  upon  the  quay  before  the  inn  door,  as  thor- 
oughly capable  of  enjoying  the  summer  warmness  as,  any 
invalid  of  them  all,  who  were  sunning  themselves  on  the 
6imny  sides  of  nearly  all  the  houses  of  the  town. 

For  it  is  worth  mentioning — that  five-and-twenty 

years  ago,  Torquay  was  as  humble  a  little  fishing-place 
as  when  Harry  of  Richmond  landed  in  the  bay  with  his 
army ;  but  it  came  to  be  known — some  way  or  other — that 
nowhere  on  the  British  coasts  were  the  winter  suns  so  soft 
and  warm ;  and  presto  sprung  forth  little  cottages  and  villas 
on  every  shelf  of  the  hills,  and  the  inns  where  one  could 
buy  only  a  stoup  of  fisherman's  ale/  will  now  make  you  a 
bill  as  long  as  the  bills  at  Bath. 

The  hills  sweep  round  the  bay  so  as  to  shut  off  every 
rude  wind  of  the  North ;  and  the  sun  goes  glancing  over 
their  green  sides — now  here,  now  there — but  never  leaves 
them  from  morning  till  night.  I  lost  myself  wandering  in 
the  little  valleys  among  them ;  along  the  bosom  of  each 
were  walks  made,  and  from  under  the  tangled  limbs  of 
fir-trees,  I  would  now  and  then  climb  suddenly  upon  a 
level  spot  where  the  sunshine  lay,  and  where  sat  a  gem 
of  a  cottage ;  and  from  the  paling  round  the  cottage,  I 
would  see  the  town  lying  along  the  lip  of  the  bay  under 
so  new  an  aspect,  that  I  would  look  two  or  three  times 
before  I  could  be  sure  that  it  was  the  same  town  of  Tor- 
quay.    Some  old  church  tower  that  had  grown  familiar 


6  Fresh    Gleanings. 

would  have  disappeared,  and  a  new  and  taller  tower 
would  rise  from  the  houses,  that  I  did  not  know ;  and  as  I 
went  to  other  openings  upon  the  hills,  the  old  tower  would 
come  back,  and  the  new  one  vanish — but  always  the 
bright  waters  of  the  bay  sleeping  below. 

Here  and  there  came  upon  me  companies  of  invalids, 
luxuriating  in  the  sun.  One  face  I  saw — that  of  a  sick 
girl — comes  to  me  now  much  oftener  than  it  ought. 

She  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  little  Bath  chairs,  and 

a  serving  man  was  drawing  her  up  the  hill.  Her  mother 
was  walking  on  one  side,  and  her  brother,  or  he  may  have 
been  her  lover,  the  other — if  he  was  a  lover,  I  pity  him,  for 
she  must  be  dead  before  now.  Her  hair  was  flaxen,  and 
once  or  twice  she  laid  it  back  with  a  gentle  motion,  from 
her  cheek ;  her  eye  was  bright — too  bright,  and  swimming 
with  a  tender  expression,  that  seemed  to  me  a  tender 
thankfulness  for  so  glorious  a  day. 

The  man  drew  her  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff  where  I  was 
standing,  and  her  expression  grew  more  earnest  as  she 
looked  out  over  the  sea,  where  the  sun  lay  in  a  flood. 
There  was  no  ripple — only  a  gentle  waving  motion  that 
did  not  break  the  surface,  but  which  at  intervals  came 
rocking  up  to  the  beach,  and  the  low  murmur  it  made,  was 
all  that  broke  the  stillness. 

The  sick  girl  looked  out  upon  the  water — and  from  that 
turned  to  the  face  of  her  mother — and  then  to  the  face  of 
the  young  man — and  then  to  the  sea  again — and  from  that 
up  to  the  sky — and  her  small  hands  met  together,  r.nd 
were  clasped  for  a  moment — and  I  thought  a  tear  or  two 


The    I  \  N     by    the    Bridge.  7 

fell  from  her  eyes. 1  turned  away  as  if  I  had  seen  noth- 
ing of  it ;  but  I  did  see  it,  and  it  made  a  difFereut  man  of 
me  for  a  week. 

I  had  half  a  mind,  forgetting  the  Doctor,  to  stop  in  Tor- 
quay. So  I  had  a  chat  with  my  landlady.  She  would  be 
charmed  to  have  me  for  a  lodger,  and  her  terms  were 
two  guineas  for  board,  a  guinea  more  for  room ;  and  for 
service — it  should  be  left  entirely  to  my  discretion. 

1  did  not  whistle,  but  slipped  my  hand  into  my 

trowsers  pocket,  and  tried  to  jingle  the  four  sovereigns  1 
had  left,  and  pursed  up  my  lips  very  tightly — in  short, 
I  must  have  made  a  very  awkward  appearance. 

That  very  afternoon  I  had  paid  my  bill,  and  before 
night  was  sitting  in  the  best  parlor,  up  stairs,  of  a  little  inn 
at  Paignton,  the  other  side  of  the  bay.  So  small  was  the 
inn,  that  the  housemaid  was  sent  off  to  the  butcher's  shop, 
to  buy  me  a  steak  for  supper — with  this  I  took  a  tankard 
of  ale,  and  before  a  grate  full  of  coals  sat  dozing  the  night 
away,  till  the  village  clock  struck  eleven. 


The    Inn    by    the    Bridge. 

T  WAS  glad  the  coachman  did  not  ask  me  where  I  was 
-■-  going,  when  I  got  upon  the  Plymouth  coach  next 
morning — for  I  could  not  have  told  him.  We  had  not 
gone  twenty  miles  before  we  entered  the  sweetest  gem 
of  a  valley  that  could  be  found  in  all  Devonshire  ;   and 


8  Fresh    Gleanings. 

scarce  had  we  entered  it,  before  the  coachman  pointed  out 
•with  his  whip,  a  heavy,  home-looking,  stone  mansion  be- 
side the  way,  where,  said  he,  in  spring  time — they  take 
lodgers,  who  go  trouting  all  down  the  valley. 

—  And  if  they  take  lodgers  in  spring,  why  not  in  winter, 
said  I. 

—  Sure  enough  ;  why  not  ]  said  he. 

So,  when  we  were  opposite,  he  reined  up  his  horses, 
and  I  jumped  down  with  my  portmanteau  in  my  hand. 
The  good  woman  showed  me  into  a  snug  little  parlor,  and 
the  maid  came  in  with  a  pan  full  of  coals,  and  presently 
the  grate  was  all  in  a  glow,  and  the  room  dusted  ;  and 
for  dinner,  I  was  served  with  such  old-fashioned  apple- 
pies,  and  such  luscious  clotted  cream,  as  are  to  be  found 
nowhere  else  in  England. 

Ah,  it  was  a  rare  time  that,  in  the  old  inn  at  Erme- 

bridge  !  Out  of  one  window  I  could  see  the  stone  arch 
that  leaped  the  stream,  over  which  the  coaches  thundered 
twice  and  three  times  a  day ;  and  beyond  it,  the  gray  roofs 
of  the  village  nestled  together  on  the  side  of  the  valley,  with 
the  brown  church  tower,  mossy  and  old,  lifting  above  them 
— and  beyond,  the  hills  rising,  and  spreading  into  green 
grain  fields.  Out  of  the  other  window,  that  went  down  to 
the  floor,  I  could  step  into  a  rich  plat  of  grass,  with  trim 
walks  in  it,  and  laurels  blossoming,  and  holding  up  their 
painted  heads  as  proudly,  as  if  the  month  were  June,  and 
not  January.  From  the  very  edge  of  this  little  green  spot 
stretched  a  pheasant  wood — for  how  many  miles  over  the 
hills,  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  have  walked  myself  tired  in 


T  II  R      I  N  N      BY      THE      B  R  1  D  G  E.  9 

it,  and  never  found  the  end ;  and  sometimes  the  pheasants 
would  steal  out,  and  go  stalking  under  the  laurels,  and 
stretch  out  a  wing  and  a  leg  to  sun,  on  a  soft  bit  of  the 
gravel ;  but  when  I  touched  the  window,  they  would 
whir  away  to  the  middle  of  the  wood. 

Stranger  things  happen  every  day,  than  that  I  should 
forget  all  about  the  instructions  of  Dr.  Manifold,  and  loiter 
a  whole  week  at  Erme-bridge.  I  could  make  a  very  long 
story,  if  I  chose,  of  my  landlady's  discourse— of  the  talk 
of  the  wise  ones  of  the  village,  as  they  happened  in  of  an 
evening  for  a  mug  of  toddy  or  a  glass  of  my  landlord's  ale — 
of  my  rambles  over  the  grounds  of  the  Squire,  whose  cas- 
tellated mansion  broke  up  into  the  sky,  at  the  South  end 
of  the  valley,  with  a  score  or  more  of  chimney  tops — of 
my  stealing  slyly  upon  herds  of  deer,  to  see  them  go  gal- 
loping away  like  the  wind — of  the  Sunday  service  at  the 
church,  where  the  Christmas-greens  were  still  hanging, 
a  sprig  of  holly  in  each  corner  of  the  pews,  and  wreaths 
woven  of  fir-boughs  and  myrtle  hanging  in  dried  festoons 
from  the  desk  where  the  curate  stood,  (whose  man-ser- 
vant would  now  and  then  slip  into  the  inn  with  the  parish 
jug — as  if  the  curate  had  not  an  equal  right  to  the  good 
things  of  life  as  any  man  of  us  all!) — but  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  make  a  long  story  of  it ;  for  Ill-health,  that  had 
dogged  me  like  a  hound  all  the  way  down  through  the 
North  of  England,  came  here  upon  my  track  again.  I 
got  once  more  upon  the  Plymouth  coach  to  give  him  a 
new  chase;  and  as  we  rattled  over  the  bridge,  and  I 
caught  the  last  eourtesy  and  the  last  smile  of  the  landlady 


10  Fresh    Gleanings. 

at  the  door,  I  vowed  in  my  heart,  that — if  my  wife  were 
willing — I  would  spend  my  honey-moon  at  that  same  inn 
of  Erme-bridge. 


S  The    Zebra. 

IT  was  a  wretched,  rainy  night ;  and  as  I  went  about 
through  the  muddy  and  narrow  streets,  and  under  the 
black,  overhanging  gables  of  Plymouth,  I  fancied  that  all 
whom  I  met  gliding  about  in  cloaks,  were  worthy  old 
Round-heads,  making  ready  for  the  Mayflower.  I  felt 
that  there  was  something  half-kindred  in  our  purpose  ;  for 
I  was  threading  the  slippery  streets,  in  search  of  some 
craft  to  take  me  over  to  the  Island  of  Jersey,  out  of  the 
clutches  of  a  Tyrant  more  ruthless  than  Charles  and  Laud 
together. 

So  I  went  splashing  along,  around  sharp  corners,  and 
through  ill-lighted  ways,  with  my  feelings  so  wrought 
up  by  crowding  fancies  and  the  strangeness  of  the  scene 
— the  distant  lamps  glimmering  on  the  wet  pavement 
— the  rain-drops  pattering  on  me  from  the  quaint  old 
blackened  balconies — that  once  or  twice,  I  caught  my- 
self turning  half  round  at  sound  of  an  approaching  foot- 
fall, to-see  if  a  posse  of  King  Charles's  men  were  not  upon 
my  track;  but  they  were  not,  and  I  found  my  way 
quietly  enough  down  to  the  George  and  Dragon. — Just 
such  a  bit  of  a  carousing  inn  it  was,  as  would  have  re- 


sb 


The    Zebra.  11 

joiced  the  heart  of  Roger  Wildrake  with  a  heaping  tank- 
ard of  sack.  But  though  the  merry  old  days  of  Wildrakes 
are  gone,  the  days  of  sack-drinkers  are  not,  The  twofold 
virtue  is  still  recognized  at  the  inn  of  the  George  and 
Dragon.  The  tap-room  was  full.  They  were  sitting  on 
wooden  benches  around  a  blazing  fire  in  the  grate— the 
half  of  them  with  pipes,  and  every  man  of  them  with  his 
mug  of  ale. 

For  my  own  part,  I  like  to  see  now  and  then  such  re- 
siduary customs  of  the  Past ;  and  in  an  old  lumbering 
town  like  Plymouth,  it  freshens  memories,  and  makes  an 
agreeable  coincidence,  and  puts  the  quickest  possible  edge 
upon  a  man's  appetite  for  seeing  and  living  over  again  the 
times  that  are  gone.  And  if  there  are  folks  so  stupidly 
sober  as  to  question  my  habit  in  the  thing,  I  shall  enter 
no  such  plea  as  no?i  jpeccatum  est ;  for  in  many  a  little  inn 
along  the  Tweed  have  I  drained  a  good  tankard  of  home- 
brewed, and  felt  myself — not  a  whit  the  worse  for  it. 

The  landlord  came  out  from  behind  his  bar,  where  he 
stood  between  two  rows  of  glittering  tankards,  and  went 
down  with  me  upon  the  Quay,  in  search  of  a  skipper 
friend  of  his  own,  who  was  going  on  the  morrow  to  Jer- 
sey. It  was  a  little  black,  one-masted  vessel  we  found, 
rocking  just  under  the  lee  of  the  pier,  and  we  had  shout- 
ed a  half  dozen  times  before  a  stumpy  figure  put  its  head 
out  of  the  forecastle,  and  told  us  the  Zebra  would  sail  at 
morning  tide  next  day. 

I  promised  to  send  my  luggage  to  the  Dragon,  and  the 
host  of  the  Dragon  said  it  would  be  all  right.     I  splashed 


12  F  R  E  S  II     G  L  E  A  N  I  N  G  S. 

home  again,  and  dreamed  all  night  of  doublets,  and  striped 
hose,  and  Round-heads,  and  basket-hilts,  and  Old  Noll,  and 
Pym,  and  Plymouth  Rock — and  now  and  then,  like  a  gleam 
of  light  breaking  through  the  dreams,  came  a  pleasant 
vision  of  sweet  Alice  Lee. 

The  tide  came  in,  and  the  tide  went  out,  and  the  sun 
got  up  to  its  highest ;  still  the  Zebra  lay  just  off  the  pier ; 
and  every  time  I  met  the  Captain,  who  was  a  dapper  little 
Islander,  he  would  half  embrace  me  in  a  perfect  trans- 
port of  excuses 

I  think  I  must  have  borne  it  very  meekly,  or  his  confi- 
dence in  my  forbearance  would  not  have  remained  so  un- 
shaken ;  for  he  had  repeated  this  manoeuvre  I  know  not 
how  many  times,  before  we  were  fairly  ready  to  set  off. 
I  had  even  taken  a  steak  in  the  back  parlor  of  the  Dragon, 
and  had  gone  iip  the  heights  above  the  town,  to  see 
through. a  glass,  the  waves  dashing  over  the  top  of  Eddy- 
stone,  nine  miles  down  the  bay ;  and  the  sun  had  gone 
down  at  the  first  clinck  of  the  windlass,  and  the  light  was 
blazing  on  the  end  of  the  Breakwater,  when  we  rounded 
it,  and  dropped  down  into  the  Sound. 

There  is  nothing  in  a  run  across  the  English  Channel, 
ipso  facto,  either  curious,  or  worth  the  telling.  But  there 
I  was,  a  sad  wreck  of  an  invalid,  with  two  sovereigns  in 
my  pocket,  a  doctor's  prescription,  and  a  pill-box — with 
only  so  much  dinner  in  my  stomach,  as  I  had  picked  up  on 
ten  minutes'  notice  in  the  back  room  of  the  Dragon — in  a 
little  forty-ton  vessel,  cutter-rigged — with  a  half-blooded 
Captain,  who  had  sprung  a  brandy-bottle  in  his  berth,  be- 


The    Zebra.  13 

fore  we  were  quit  of  Mt.  Edgecombe — bound  two  or 
three  hundred  miles  away,  to  a  dot  of  an  Island,  so  set 
around  with  barefaced  and  sunken  rocks,  that  to  make  it 
in  the  best  of  weather,  is  like  sailing  between  Scylla  and 
Charybdis,  amid  the  howlings  of  Sea-green  dogs  * 

For  company,  were  forty  fat  sheep  —  a  butcher  —  a 
Plymouth  pilgrim,  who  was  a  shoemaker,  and  had  a  wife 
and  nine  children — a  stone-cutter  with  his  bride,  going  to 
try  his  new-knit  fortunes  in  the  Islands  of  the  sea.  Philippe 
was  Captain,  but  stayed  most  of  his  time  below,  wrapped 
in  a  cloak ;  Ben,  the  mate,  had  but  one  hand,  but  he 
managed  the  tiller  very  well  with  his  stump;  Tom  was 
the  only  sailor  aboard,  and  had  it  not  been  for  him,  I  be- 
lieve I  should  never  have  lived  to  tell  the  story  of  the  voy- 
age. Pierre  wore  a  long  dreadnought,  spoke  bad  En- 
glish, built  the  fire,  emptied  the  slops,  and  did  the  cooking. 
Beside  myself,  there  was  not  another  soul  on  board,  ex- 
cept a  small  dog,  who,  before  we  had  been  out  eight-and- 
twenty  hours,  became  disgusted  with  appearances  on 
deck,  and  went  below,  where  he  lay  coiled  up  in  a  corner 
of  the  hold. 

In  the  cabin  were  four  berths :  Philippe  had  one,  the 
butcher  another,  the  stone-cutter  and  wife  (they  took  turns 
— so  did  we  all  before  we  got  to  Jersey)  another,  and 
myself  the  fourth.  A  stove  and  table  filled  up  the  middle. 
A  light  wind  hardly  kept  the  sail  full  down  the  Sound. — 
At  ten  it  was  calm,  and  the  canvas  flapped  the  mast.     At 

*  — —  coeruleis  canibus  resonantia  saxa.     (/En.,  lib.  iii.  432.) 


14  Fresh    Gleanings. 

twelve  we  were  dashing  ahead  merrily,  and  sheets  of  foam 
flew  from  the  bow,  all  over  the  vessel :  I  wrung  my  Scotch 
cap  dry,  and  put  it  on  for  a  night-cap,  and  turned  in. 

I  had  not  slept  two  hours,  before  I  commenced  dream- 
ing— dreaming,  strange  as  it  seems,  now  that  I  come  to 
write  it  down— about  being  in  a  tub  of  malt  liquor ;  and  I 
had  sunk  so  low,  that  it  was  just  gurgling  in  my  ears, 
when  1  woke  up :  1  was  as  wet  as  if  it  had  been  no 
dream.  The  berth  was  soaking  wet,  and  had  soaked 
through  three  coats,  and  wet  me  to  the  skin.  I  staggered 
on  deck — it  was  no  drier  there.  The  wind  had  hauled 
ahead,  and  the  waves  came  driving  at  us,  and  licked  us 
over,  like  hungry  dogs.  I  can  not  describe  the  action  of 
the  little  craft  as  she  tossed  and  plunged,  and  then  leaped 
down  into  a  dark  trough  of  the  howling  waves.  It  was 
dreadful — I  could  not  bear  it.  I  tried  to  shake  some  of 
the  water  from  me,  and  crawled  below ;  and  took  one  of 
the  Doctor's  pills,  and  turned  my  head  to  the  wall. 

My  thoughts  were  quick  and  active  ;  for  the  peltjngs  of 
the  wet,  and  a  but-half- admitted  sense  of  danger  made 
me  wakeful  as  the  morning;  but  my  thoughts  took  one 
inevitable  direction ;  I  could  have  pleaded  in  a  period  as 
long  as  the  longest  in  one  of  Fenelon's  sermons,  and  by 
half  more  eloquent,  for  a  single  half  hour  of  quiet.. 

Oh,  ye  pleasant  romancers  about  the  gay  life  upon 

the  sea, — whose  romances  spend  themselves  in  dreams  and 
in  longings,  I  wish  you  could  have  had  the  berth  of  this 
poor  soul  for  an  hour,  that  night  in  the  Zebra  ! 

If  a  man's  thoughts  are  not  lively  enough  to  run  away 


The   Zebra.  15 

from  his  distresses,  at  such  a  time,  there  would  be  no  hope 
for  him — he  would  go  down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave. 
Now,  my  thoughts  were  frolicking  through  the  green  al- 
leys of  England,  and  cottages  sweet  as  love  ever  fancied, 
— when  I  was  restored  to  present  consciousness,  by  the  ef- 
forts made  to  breathe  an  infernal  smoke,  that  filled  the 
whole  cabin  of  the  Zebra. 

Pierre  had  come  in,  in  his  dreadnought,  and  was  build- 
ing a  fire  in  the  stove.  Presently  he  put  over  a  pot  of 
coffee ;  and  when  it  had  boiled,  he  generously  offered  it 
around  at  the  berths,  in  a  tin  dipper.  I  was  not  sure — but 
thought  I  had  seen  the  same  dipper  passed,  in  a  hurried 
manner,  from  the  berth  of  the  stone-cutter's  wife  to  the 
gangway,  in  the  first  glimmer  of  the  morning. 

—  No,  thank  ye — said  I — too  ungraciously,  for  after  all, 
thought  I,  it  is  only  suspicion — corroborated,  I  must  say,  by 
the  fact  that  the  stone-cutter  himself  scrupulously  abstained. 
The  Captain,  however,  drank  a  full  dipper  of  it ;  and  if  he 
did  not  relish  it  so  much  as  his  brandy,  it  was  surely  no 
fault  of  the  dipper,  which  was  as  good  a  dipper,  mechan- 
ically speaking,  as  one  could  wish  for. 

But  the  stone-cutter's  wife  wras  not  the  only  one  who 
proved  unseaworthy ;  for  there  were  noises  from  the  berth 
of  the  butcher  below  me,  that  sounded  like  any  thing  else, 
more  than  the  turning  out  of  coffee. 

By  and  by  there  was  a  slight  scuffle  on  deck ;  the  Cap- 
tain was  at  the  foot  of  the  gangway,  and  Pierre  at  the 
top  :-«-they  passed  down  the  drenched  cobbler,  and  set 
him  up  in  the  lee  corner ;  the  poor  devil  had  not  strength 


16  Fresh   Gleanings. 

to  say  any  thing.  Next  they  handed  down  his  wife,  and 
set  her  up  to  windward  as  a  sort  of  bolster,  to  keep  the 
old  fellow  from  tumbling  against  the  stove,  at  each  lurch 
of  the  vessel.  Next,  they  passed  down  one  of  the  cob- 
bler's boys — then  one  of  the  cobbler's  girls.  I  grew  un- 
easy, but  said  nothing — I  doubt  if  I  could  have  said  any 
thing.  "    • 

They  kept  on  passing  them  down — first  a  boy,  then  a 
girl — then  a  girl,  and  then  a  boy,  until  I  had  counted  nine. 
They  filled  the  floor  like  a  mat,  homespun — I  tried  to 
smile  at  the  joke,  but  I  could  not.  Through  all  this,  the 
cobbler  had  not  said  a  word — nor  one  of  the  children — nor 
the  butcher — nor  the  stone-cutter's  wife — nor  I;  but  I 
thought  how  it  would  be,  for  there  was  no  room  now  to 
pass  about  the  dipper;  indeed  I  doubt  if  one  of  them 
could  have  carried  a  steady  hand. 

Presently  there  was  a  low  cry. 

—  Ma,  Ma,  tell  Johnny 

—  Poor  dear  !  how  can  he  help  it — said  Ma  ;  and  the 
cobbler's  wife  made  a  hurried  effort  to  clear  a  spot  beside 
her ; — how  could  she  hope  it,  wedged  in  as  they  were  ] 

The  cobbler  tried  to  recoil,  but  said  not  a  word,  though 
his  mouth  was  full  of  bitterness — poor  soul ! — so  was  his 
lap. 

Now  it  happened  just  then,  that  my  London  beaver, 
which  was  upon  a  beam  under  the  skylight,  lurched  over 
and  fell  among  them.  I  would  not  have  got  down  to  pick 
it  up,  if  it  had  been  worth  ten  guineas.  So  it  went  bob- 
bing among  them,  striking  one  in  the  teeth,  and  another 


The   Zebra.  17 

in  the  eyes,  and  once  burying  Johnny  to  the  shoulders. 
There  was  a  suffocating  cry  from  under  it,  and  by  a  sin- 
gle pinch  of  the  thumb  and  finger,  the  cobbler's  wife  made 
a  cocked  hat  of  it ;  still,  flattened  and  shapeless,  it  went 
driving  round,  nor  stopped  till  Pierre  picked  it  up,  and 
jammed  it  into  his  locker. 

I  grew  tired  of  all  this.  I  do  not  like  to  confess  to  sea- 
sickness, but  there  was  a  feeling  at  my  heart  (it  may  have 
been  the  stomach,  as  I'm  no  anatomist)  which  played  the 
very  dickens  with  me.  I  got  upon  deck — I  never  knew 
how — but  have  a  faint  recollection  of  three  or  four  of  the 
cobbler's  children  squalling  after  me,  as  if  they  had  been 
trodden  on.  I  put  an  arm  round  the  bulwarks, — begged 
Pierre  to  lay  a  tarpaulin  over  me,  for  it  was  raining  in 
torrents,  and  looked  out  upon  the  sea. 

Now  and  then  a  wave  would  rise  close  beside  the  ves- 
sel, and  a  gust  tear  off  its  whole  beaded  top,  and  bring  it 
— a  long  sheet  of  water — crackling  and  spattering  over 
me.  I  would  duck  my  gray  wool  cap  under  the  tarpau- 
lin, but  no  sooner  out,  than — whist  came  another  scud, 
half  blinding  me  with  spray.  A  gull  now  and  then  would 
battle  with  the  wind,  but  seemed  struggling  to  get  to  land. 
The  clouds  thickened  gradually  into  darkness,  for  the  sun 
was  down  ; — -ponto  nox  incubat  atra — black  night  brooded 
on  the  waters ;  the  very  half  line  came  to  me,  as  I  sat  hug- 
ging the  low  bulwarks,  and  gasping  between  the  gusts. 

O  !  terque,  quaterque  beati,  you  school-boys,  who  scan 
Virgil  to  the  beats  of  the  master's  rod,  though  it  be  on 
your  bare  backs,  rather  than  the  thumps  and  dashings  of 


18  Fresh    Gleanings. 

a  January  gale  upon  the  writhing  carcass  of  that  little 
floating  Zebra — more  headlong  in  its  gallop  than  the  wild- 
est that  courses  the  plains  of  Timbuctoo  !. 

There  was  no  sleep  that  night.  I  did  not  go  back  to 
the  cabin :  I  gave  the  mate  a  half-a-crown  for  his  bunk, 
which  was  just  within  the  gangway.  True,  the  clothes 
smelled  bad,  but  the  cabin  smelled  infinitely  worse. 

No  better  sky  opened  on  us  next  morning.  Again  the 
vile  smoke  filled  the  cabin  ;  again  Pierre  made  the  coffee  ; 
again  he  passed  the  dipper.  I  was  faint,  for  I  had  eaten 
nothing  since  the  dinner  in  the  parlor  of  the  Dragon.  I 
begged  a  bit  of  biscuit,  munched  it,  and  staggered  forward 
to  the  water-cask.  The  butcher,  too,  had  crawled  on 
deck,  but  he  said  nothing  to  me  (he  knew  my  berth  was 
oyer  him)  and  I  said  nothing  to  him. 

By  noon  a  little  sun  showed  itself.  A  London  packet 
was  beating  down  Channel.  It  scarce  seemed  to  mind 
the  sea  that  was  tossing  us  about,  as  if  we  were  not  worth 
a  reckoning.  I  would  have  given  my  two  sovereigns,  and 
my  hat,  and  all  I  had,  to  have  been  on  board  of  her. 

The  cobbler's  boys  crawled  on  deck.  Pierre  made  a 
little  broth,  and  I  begged  some,  and  ate  it  in  a  pint  bowl 
that  I  had  not  seen  before.  Before  dark,  we  had  made 
the  Island  of  Sark,  but  night  came  on  black  again,  and  in 
the  morning,  hungry  and  faint,  I  crawled  again  upon  the 
wet  decks,  to  see — nothing  but  a  great  gray  waste  of 
waters,  dashing  arid  lashing  around  us. 

The  sheep  were  almost  dead,  and  so  was  I.  There 
was  not  a  quadrant  on  board,  if  there  had  been  a  sun  to 


Th  e    Zebra.  19 

light  it.  The  captain  knew  no  more  of  navigation  than  the 
butcher;  yet,  there  we  were,  tearing  away  at  a  deuce  of 
a  pace — Philippe  in  the  rigging, *and  the  one-handed  man 
at  the  helm — Heaven  only  knew  where.  So  we  had  run 
on  till  near  noon,  when  we  decided — and  the  butcher  and 
I  came  into  consultation — to  put  the  vessel  about.  All 
was  ready  for  the  new  move,  when  Philippe  cried,  land. 
As  I  had  no  more  faith  in  the  fellow's  eyes,  than  I  had  in 
his  conscience,  I  doubted  still. 

Soon,  however,  there  was  a  blue  lift  in  the  horizon.  An 
hour,  and  we  made  Guernsey  and  rounded  it;  then  we 
made  the  highlands  of  St.  John's  and  of  Grosnez  ;  and  saw 
the  tall  belfry  of  St.  Owen  ;  and  shot  among  the  troubled 
waves,  within  two  oars'  length  of  the  fearful  Corbiere  ;  and 
passed  La  Moye,  and  ran  under  the  shade  of  St.  Brelades, 
and  frightfully  near  La  Fret ;  and  dashed  round  Noirmont 
tower — away  through  the  broad  bay  of  Sf.  Aubins — under 
the  scowling-guns  of  the  castle — straight  between  the  pier- 
heads of  the  dock  of  St.  Hiliers. 

1  will  never  go  to  sea  again  in  a  vessel  of  forty  tons  ; 

— I  will  never  sail  again  with  such  a  half-blooded  blade  of  a 
captain ; — I  will  never  sail  again  with  a  cobbler  who  has 
a  wife  and  nine  children ; — I  will  never  sail  again  with  a 
butcher  who  does  not  know  a  coffee-cup  from  a  wash- 
bowl ;  but,  the  cruise  in  the  Zebra  being  at  an  end,  I  can 
only  say, — I  will  never,  under  favor  of  Heaven,  make  such 
another. 


20  Fresh   Gleanings. 


Saint    Hiliers. 

TT  was  very  odd,  but  even  so,  that  Ill-health,  which,  as 
**■  I  said,  had  dogged  me  all  through  England,  lost  the 
scent  in  some  of  those  doublings  upon  the  Channel ;  and  I 
felt  myself  a  well  man,  (though  a  very  weak  one)  at  the 
first  step  I  put  upon  the  quay  ;  and  tenfold  so,  when  I  had 
taken  a  good  bath,  and  a  good  dinner  in  the  neat  little  inn 
of  my  host,  upon  the  Place  Royale. 

My  heart  warms  as  I  go  back  to  the  pleasant  little  city 
of  St.  Hiliers,  picturesquely  strewed  along  the  sands  of  St. 
Aubin's  bay,  with  grim  and  great  Fort  Regent  scowling 
over  it  from  the  rock, — its  houses  lighted  up  by  sunshine, 
its  streets  smooth  and  clean  to  a  nicety — all  of  which  I 
knew,  and  all  the  hucksters'  shops  and  alleys,  as  well  as  1 
know  the  green,  broad  valley  that  stretches  from  my  win- 
dow to-day.  Morning  after  morning,  in  pleasant  winter 
time,  have  I  wandered  through  the  streets  of  the  Island  city, 
busy  and  active, — and  along  the  quays,  where  lie  vessels 
from  Rio  and  the  Cape,  and  Newfoundland;  and  by  the 
pretty  cottages  that  sit  upon  the  hills  above  the  town,  and 
out  upon  the  long  reach  of  pebbles,  that  connects  Castle 
Elizabeth  with  the  shore.  There,  they  say,  upon  the  rocky 
isle,  an  old  hermit  had  his  home  ;  I  have  laid  myself  down 
in  the  bed  in  the  rock,  where  they  say  that  the  hermit 
laid  >    but  the  wild   Normans    as  early  as  the  times  of 


Saint    Hiliers.  21 

Charles  tho  Simple,  killed  the  poor  anchorite,  and  now 
nothing  is  left  of  him,  but  his  hole  in  the  rock,  and  his 
name — for  his  name  was  St.  Hilier. 

Pleasant  memories  hover  about  the  old  castle,  for  Wal- 
ter Raleigh  was  once  its  Governor,  and  had  a  snug  room 
on  the  first  floor,  with — I  dare  say — many  a  good  butt  of 
sack  on  the  floor  below.  Clarendon  wrote  a  part  of  his 
history  in  some  odd  corner  of  the  battlemented  building. 
But  the  days  of  its  glory  are  gone ;  and  the  head-quarters 
of  Charles  the  Second,  who  made  the  old  walls  shake  with 
jollity,  have  become  a  guard-room  for  half  a  dozen  lazy 
fellows  in  gray  coats  and  breeches,  who  keep  up  a  clatter 
with  pipes,  and  a  few  tumblers  of  weak  wine.  Age  has 
worn  sad  furrows  in  its  face,  and  a  few  guns  from  the 
prim-looking  Fort  Regent,  upon  the  hill,  would  batter 
it  down  to  the  sea. 

It  is  very  strange  how  this  Island  people,  living  as  it 
were  within  hail  of  the  coast  of  France,  and  speaking  the 
Norman  language,  and  living  under  Norman  customs, 
should  yet  be  the  sturdiest  loyalists,  and  the  most  con- 
summate haters  of  French  rule,  anywhere  to  be  found  in 
the  dominions  of  her  Britannic  majesty.  Time  and  time 
again,  the  French  have  struggled  to  possess  the  Island — 
twice  have  had  armies  upon  it,  but  always  have  been 
driven  back  into  the  sea. 

Now,  little  Martello  towers  line  the  whole  shores, 
springing  from  the  rocks  just  off  the  land ;  and  through- 
out the  reign  of  Napoleon,  a  red  light  might  have  been 
seen  in  them  all  at  night — for  in  each,  two  artillery  men 
boiled  their  pot  for  a  week  together. 


22  Fresh   Gleanings. 

The  last  regular  descent  upon  the  city,  or  in  fact  upon 
any  part  of  the  Island,  was  somewhere  about  the  year  17S0 
or  '81.*  Baron  de  Rullecourt  landed  one  stormy  night 
with  seven  hundred  men,  at  a  point  of  rocks  within  a  half- 
hour's  march  of  the  town  Square.  Before  light  they  had 
roused  Major  Corbet,  the  governor  of  the  Island ;  two  tall 
French  grenadiers  served  him  as  valets*dc'cliambre,  and 
marched  him,  arm  in  arm,  upon  the  Place  Royale.  By  this 
time  the  Islanders  were  awake,  and  were  surprised  to  find 
seven  hundred  French  soldiers  marshaled  in  their  quiet 
Square,  and  Major  Corbet,  in  his  night-cap,  in  the  front 
ranks.  Major  Corbet,  acting  probably  under  advices  of 
his  French  retainers,  ordered  the  Island  garrison  to  capit- 
ulate. 

Major  Pierson,  the  next  in  command,  being  thoroughly 
awake,  declined  compliance  ;  and  by  noon  a  thousand  of 
the  militia  had  crowded  up  all  the  little  streets  which  lead 
off'  the  Royal  Square.  Major  Pierson  was  at  the  head  of 
his  company.     The  Frenchmen  stood  firm. 

Major  Corbet,  shivering  with  the  cold,  for  it  was  Jan- 
Mary,  penned  another  and  final  order,  as  commander-in- 
chief.  Major  Pierson  stuck  the  billet  upon  the  point  of 
his  sword,  and  waved  to  his  men  to  come  forward. 

"Crack  ! — went  the  French  musketry. 

Major  Pierson  fell  dead,  but  his  men  bore  up  stoutly ; 
Baron  de  Rullecourt  fell:  the  French  ranks  became  thin- 


*  Falle's  History.  Earlier  attacks  upon  the  islands  are  mentioned 
in  Raleigh's  History  of  the  World;  particularly  that  upon  Sark — a 
•curious  story — in  the  time  of  Edward  VI. 


The    Island    op    Jersey.  23 

ned — the  Islanders  closed  round  them,  hewing,  and  firing, 
and  shouting.  They  beat  them  down, — they  trampled 
them  under  foot, — they  met  in  the  middle.  It  was  a 
rare  time  for  the  quiet  little  town  of  St.  Hiliers.  Only 
fifty  got  safely  to  their  boats. 

The  Islanders  speak  of  it  now  as  a  thing  of  yesterday. 
—  Poor  Major  Pierson!  says  one. 

—  Et  Rullccourt — le pauvre  (Liable!  says  another;  and 
they  show  you  the  stone  (I  could  see  it  from  my  inn 
window)  on  which  he  fell  fighting  so  bravely. 

Making  up,  as  they  do,  a  family  of  themselves,  apart 
from  the  rest  of  the  world,  it  was  curious  to  observe  how 
their  thoughts  ran  upon  old  themes.  They  were  once, 
it  is  said,  nearer  the  Main  than  now ;  and  this  leads  me 

away  from  St.  Hiliers- — its  inn — my  host  Monsieur  B , 

his  fat  wife,  and  daughter,  to  take  a  rambling  glance  at 
the  whole  Island. 


The   Island    of   Jersey. 

FTHRADITION  —  a  pleasant  old  story-teller  as  ever 
-*-  lived — says  that  the  people  of  Normandy,  once 
passed  over  to  the  Island  of  Jersey  upon  a  bridge  of  a 
single  plank,  paying  a  small  tribute  to  the  Abbot  of 
Coutance.  If  the  method  should  be  resumed,  there 
would  be  needed  a  plank  five  leagues  long — and  the 
bishop  must  be  toll-gatherer,  for  the  abbot  is  dead. 


24  Fresh    Gleanings. 

Perhaps  it  was  when  crossing  was  so  easy,  that  the 
fierce  Normans  made  such  terrible  inroads  upon  the  island, 
atid  upon  all  the  neighboring  parts  of  France — even  to 
the  gates  of  the  palace  of  Charles  the  Simple,  that  this 
weak  monarch  proposed  to  Rollo,  who  called  himself 
Duke  of  Normandy,  this  bargain : — Rollo  was  to  have 
quiet  possession  of  the  islands  of  Sark,  Alderney,  Guern- 
sey and  Jersey,  and  all  that  part  of  France  now  called 
Normandy,  with  the  king's  daughter  Gisla,  into  the  bar- 
gain— provided  he  would  neither  ask,  nor  take  any  thing 
more.  More  of  the  king's  daughters,  Rollo,  as  a  discreet 
prince  (and  tradition  says  thus  much  for  him),  probably 
never  wanted; — for  the  same  tradition  says,  Gisla  was 
both  old  and  ugly. 

Yet, — so  strange  are  the  ways  of  Providence, — from 
this  same  match,  brought  into  effect  by  so  romantic  at- 
tachments, is  legitimately  sprung  His  Royal  Highness,  Al- 
bert Prince  of  Wales.  How  much  of  the  blood  of  Gisla 
or  of  Hollo,  stirs  up  the  little  chubby  rogue,  at  his  hoop-driv- 
ing in  the  park  behind  the  palace,  it  matters  not  to  inquire. 

A  part  of  the  bargain  I  had  forgotten. — Rollo,  on  mar- 
rying his  wife,  was  to  become  a  Christian ;  an  odd  way, 
it  may  seem  to  many,  of  promoting  the  Christian  virtues 
in  a  man ; — but  those  were  rude  times.  Rollo  managed 
his  new  estates  well;  he  was  both  loved  and  feared.  It 
was  the  custom  of  the  humblest  of  the  peasantry  to  call 
in  the  prince  to  settle  their  disputes;  "Rollo,  Rollo, 
a  Vaide  mon  prince  /"  was  the  cry ; — and  so  often  was  it 
repeated,  and  so  just  were  the  Duke's  decisions,  that  the 


Tut   Island   of   Jersey.  25 

cry  became  a  part  of  their  law.  It  went  down  to  the 
people  under  succeeding  monarchs — to  the  times  of 
Robert  the  Magnificent,  and  William  the  Conqueror,  and 
Henry ;  and  even  still  later,  it  had  force  in  Normandy. 

Apropos  is  this  story,  I  have  somewhere  met  with,  of 
the  burial  of  William  the  Conqueror,*  whose  ashes  lie 
under  the  high  arches  of  the  Abbaye  mix  homines  at  Caen. 

The  grave  was  dug, — the  monarch  was  in  his  coffin, 

— the  candles  were  burning,  and  the  incense  was  rising. 
The  dead  monarch's  son  Henry,  in  armor,  and  his  guards 
in  glittering  armor,  stood  looking  on; — they  raised  the  cof- 
fin to  lower  it  in  the  grave,  when  suddenly,  a  voice  from 
beside  the  royal  cortege  cried, — Ha  Ro !  Ha  Ro ! 
Ha  Ro  !  a  Vaidc  mon  prince  ! 

The  attendants  set  down  the  coffin  on  the  pavement. 
Henry  looked  stern,  but  could  not  control  the  effect  of  the 
cry. 

A  peasant  claimed  the  spot  as  his ;  his  evidence  was 
made  good  by  the  concurrence  of  the  bystanders ;  and 
not  till  the  money  was  counted  him  for  the  burial-spot, 
did  the  dead  king  find  a  place  in  his  graved 

The  strangest  remains  to  be  told  : — the  cry  has  still  a 
sacred  and  binding  force  throughout  the  Island  of  Jersey 
— and  the  Clamcur  dc  Ha-ro  fills  pages  of  their  books  of 
law.  Wo  be  to  the  aggressor  who  hears  the  cry,  though 
Rollo  has  been  dead  a  thousand  years  ! 

*  Histoire  des  Frangais. — Sismondi.  Mrs.  He-mans  has  written 
some  very  pretty  verses  in  connection  with  the  same  incident. 

B 


26  F  it  e  s  ii   G  l  Ti  a  y  \  3  n  s 

After  Rollo,  came  seven  Dukes, — then  William,  who 
fought  at  Hastings,  where  Hubert's  grandsire  drew  a  long- 
bow. William  gave  Jersey  with  the  rest  of  Normandy  to 
his  son  Robert — poor  fellow — he  had  his  eyes  put  out  in 
Cardiffe  Castle — a  day's  ride  from  Bristol ;  and  the  phthis- 
icy  old  warder  will  tell  you  the  story,  if  you  go  there,  now. 

Since  that  sad  day,  England's  kings  have  been  masters 
of  Jersey,  with  the  exception  of  a  little  time  when  Crom- 
well sent  over  his  army,  and  subdued  it.  For  the  men  of 
Jersey  were  great  royalists,  and  Charles  II.  led  a  gay 
life  there  after  running  away  from  Worcester,  or  (Scott's 
version)  after  stealing  out  of  Ditchley  park,  under  advice 
of  old  Doctor  Rochecliffe.  And  now  they  show  you,  with 
pitiable  pride, — the  table  at  which  he  sat, — the  bed  on 
which  he  slept  (one  of  them),  and  speak  of  him  (many  of 
them)  as  a  father. 

Cromwell,  however,  conquered  the  Island,  and  Haines 

was  made  Governor but  a  truce  to  all  this ;   you  will 

find  as  much  in  your  geographies.  It  gives  one  no  clear 
idea  of  the  beautiful,  green,  little  Island  of  Jersey  ;*  so  we 

*  I  am  not  writing  a  geography,  nor  a  gazetteer,  I  therefore  put 
statistics  all  down  in  a  note. — The  Island  is  twelve  miles  long,  by  eight 
broad.  Its  population,  in  round  numbers,  is  fifty  thousand — of  whom 
half  are  at  St.  Hiliers,  and  St.  Aubins,— another  little  city  opposite  the 
first.  Twenty  thousand  are  engaged  in  agriculture.  The  language  is 
indifferently — a  French  patois,  and  bad  English.  French  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  courts ;  French  and  English  of  the  churches.  Over  thirty 
thousand  tons  of  shipping  are  owned  by  the  inhabitants,  and  double  the 
amount  enters  in  a  year.     Exports  are  cows,  cider,  and  potatoes — all 


The  Island   of   Jersey.  27 

will  take  a  ramble  together  through  the  shaded  lanes,  and 
look  out  upon  the  fields. 

In  the  first  place,  there  remain  upon  the  island  the  old 
Seigneuries ;  nowhere  else  will  you  hear  of  the  Lords  of  the 
Manor.  The  old  feudal  privileges  have,  it  is  true,  mostly 
gone  by :  still,  enough  remain  to  give  their  holders  rank 
and  name  ;  and  the  gems  of  the  island  are  the  old  Manor- 
houses.  Buried  in  trees,  they  are  of  quaint  architecture, 
and  you  look  up  through  long  avenues  upon  their  peaked 
gables,  and  brown  faces  half  covered  with  ivy.  There  is 
the  manor-house  of  Rozel, — a  miniature  castle,  with  a  min- 
iature park  about  it,  on  which  the  deer  are  trooping ;  and 
from  its  windows  you  look  over  St.  Catharine's  bay,  and 
Archirondel  tower — rising  tall  and  weather-beaten  out  of 
the  edge  of  the  sea.  There  is  the  Seigneury  of  Trinity — a 
great,  soberly  mansion,  whose  walls  the  thick  evergreens 
have  made  damp-looking  and  mossy,  but  within,  it  is  ever 
cheerful  as  Summer. 

Nor  are  the  Seigneuries  all ;  for  the  whole  island  is  one 
great  suburb. — Now  we  have  a  huge  stone  wall  at  our 
left,  coming  up  to  the  very  track  of  the  carriage- wheels, — 
if  track  there  could  be  upon  the  delightfully  smooth  roads : 
a  little  moss  hangs  in  its  crevices  ;  the  edge  of  a  mouldy 
thatch  appears  over  one  end.  You  enter  by  a  high  arch- 
way, over  which   are  two  hearts  uni'ed,  graven  in  the 

excellent;  imports — wines,  grain,  and  fish.  There  are  no  duties. 
Exchange  is  in  favor  of  Great  Britian  to  the  amount  of  a  shilling  in 
a  pound. 


28  Fresh    Gleanings. 

Btone,  and  a  date  a  century  or  two  old ;  the.  archway 
opens  upon  the  cheerful,  noisy  court  of  a  farmery ; — on 
one  side,  facing  the  sun,  are  the  cottage  windows,  and  a 
gray  thatch,  thick  and  heavy,  covers  the  roof;  lines  of 
hospitable-looking  sheds,  weighed  down  with  thatch, 
flank  the  cottages,  and  the  stables  are  opposite ;  between 
are  piles  of  straw,  and  ricks,  and  carts,  and  pigs — and 
ducks  quacking,  and  an  old  woman  in  a  short  petticoat 
and  a  red  turban.  A  black  and  white  cat  is  sunning 
herself  on  a  shelf  by  the  door,  and  a  big  dog  stalks  lazily 
out,  to  give  you  a  growl  of  salutation  as  you  pass  on  your 
way. 

Just  by  the  farmery,  looking  over  the  hedge,  you  can 
see  a  dozen  of  the  beautiful  cows  of  Jersey  feeding 
in  the  orchard ;  and  they  will  lift  their  heads,  and  turn 
their  mild  eyes  upon  you  with  a  look  that  is  half  human. 
All  the  while  the  hedgerows  on  either  side  roll  up  in 
round,  green  mounds.  The  narrow  space  between  is 
hard  and  smooth,  and  so  winding  that  the  view  is  always 
changing ;  and  if  you  spring  for  a  moment  to  the  top  of 
the  grassy  knoll,  where  the  hedge  is  thin,  you  will  see  such 
a  carpet  of  greenness  as  will  make  the  heart  glad  in  win- 
ter; and  beyond  its  limit,  toppling  out  of  the  trees — a  cot- 
tage, with  so  many  roofs  and  angles,  and  windows  and 
chimneys,  as  woul  \  make  the  study  of  a  painter ; — still  be- 
yond, like  the  burro  wings  of  a  mole,  follow  those  same 
green  hedgerows,  winding  down  to  the  sea, — which  is  not 
so  far  away,  but  that  you  can  see  the  glisten  of  the  water- 
drops  and  the  shaking  of  the  waves. 


The    Island    of    Jersey.  29 

There  is  picturesqueness  of  another  kind  upon  the  island; 
— deep  valleys,  away  by  St.  Mary's  toward  the  West,  and 
hills  pushing  boldly  into  them,  with  untamed  forests  u 
their  foreheads ;  and  upon  the  tops  of  some  of  them  are 
standing  Poquelays — so  they  call  them — tall  upright  stones 
of  the  times  of  Druid  worship. 

There  is  the  remnant  upon  the  high  cape  of  Grosnez, — 
a  patch  of  a  ruin, — about  which  more  old  wives'  stories 
hang,  than  ivy-berries  upon  the  wall. 

There  is  tall  Mont  Orgueil,  and  its  tall  castle  topping  it 
— just  in  that  state  of  decay,  that  one  loves  to  wander 
dreaming  up  its  stairways ; — for  the  wooden  wainscots  are 
not  yet  mouldered,  and  you  tread  great  oaken  floors  that 
shake  and  creak ;  you  climb  tottering  stair-cases  in  angles 
of  the  wall,  and  lo  !  at  the  landing — the  floors  have  fallen, 
and  you  look  down  a  dizzy  depth  from  chamber  to  dun- 
geon ; — you  sit  in  an  embrasure  of  the  window  of  the 
great  hall  of  the  castle,  as  the  sun  goes  down ;  and  the 
red  light  reflected  from  the  waters,  that  rush  thither  and 
away  upon  the  beach,  checkers  the  heavy  whited  arches. 

Stamp  upon  the  floor,  and  the  timbers  tremble,  and 
the  echo  rings ; — a  great  door  slams  below,  and  the  crash 
comes  bellowing  into  the  hall ; — a  little  door  slams  above, 
and  the  ruin  seems  to  shake ;  a  bat  flies  in  at  the  door, 
and  flies  out  at  the  window.  As  the  twilight  deepens, 
and  gray  turns  to  black  in  the  corners  of  the  hall, 
wild  goblin  dreams  crowd  over  you  ; — there  is  a  laugh 
faint  and  low  (for  it  comes  from  the  boys  of  Gorey) 
—it  is  an  imp  in  the  shadow.     Now  it  comes  louder 


30  Fresh   Gleanings. 

— hurra  ! — it  is  Prince  Rupert,*  and  Charley  at  their 
cups. 

What  a  leer  in  the  look  of  the  prince,  what  a  devil 

in  his  eye  !  A  low  shout  again —  Vive  le  Roi  /  vive  le 
Rol  / 

How  the  glasses  jingle  !    A  bat  flies  in,  and  a  bat  flies 

out. A  laugh,  low  and   meaning — Hist !    there   is  a 

maid  in  the  corner,  and  she  looks — entreaty. 

Clinck,  clinck,  go  Prince  Rupert's  spurs,  as  he  sets  up 
a  goblin  dance. 

--King    Charles    laughs — what    a    laugh!    and  his 

sword  goes  click,  click,  against  the  heavy  oak  table  as  he 
reels  with  his  glass. 

—  No,  no  ;  it  is  not  Charles,  it  is  not  Prince  Rupert.  It 
is  Robertf  of  Normandy — for  he  built  the  castle — and  his 
tread  is  heavy  on  the  old  floor,  and  his  armor  goes  clank- 
ing— clanking. 

But  his  eyes  are  out — Poor  Robert !    Wicked  Henry  ! 

*  Historical  critics  will  quarrel  with  me  for  sending  Prince  Rupert 
to  Jersey,  where,  so  far  as  I  know,  he  never  set  foot ;  but  if  a  man 
may  poetize  with  a  license,  surely  he  may  dream,  with  a  license. 

t  Robert,  eldest  son  of  William  the  Conqueror  (1100),  was  sup- 
posed to  have  been  the  builder  of  the  castle.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  Normandy  pertained  to  him  (vid.  Turner)  by  his  father's  arrange- 
ment. It  was  purchased  from  him  by  William  Rufus ;  and  the  suc- 
ceeding monarch,  Henry  Beauclerc,  the  youngest  brother,  having 
conquered  Robert,  retained  him  prisoner  in  CardifFe  Castle  in  South 
Wales  (where  I  had  the  pleasure  of  sitting  in  his  dungeon),  for 
twenty-eight  years.  And-^-the  story  runs — the  prisoner's  eyes  were 
put  out  with  a  heated  copper  basin,  by  command  of  his  brother. 


La   Hogue   B  i  e.  31 

The  sockets  are  deep  and  bare.  'Fore  Heaven ! — his 
head  is  white  : — it  is  a  skull ! — and  the  skeleton — for  it  is 
a  skeleton,  and  no  armor — goes  clanking — clanking,  over 
the  oaken  floor. 

1  said  it  was  a  place  for  dreams — for  it  was  after 

all,  only  the  warder  come  with  his  keys,  who  tells  us  it 
is  time  to  lock  up  the  ruin. 


La  Hogue  Bie* 

/~^i  OING  home — to  St.  Hiliers — from  Mount  Orgueil, 
R*^  by  the  way  of  St.  Savior's,  there  may  be  seen  over 
the  hedge,  a  little  to  the  right  of  the  road — so  near, 
that  in  the  evening  you  would  see  it,  and  stand  and  stare 
— a  tower,  built  upon  a  mound ;  and  the  mound  is  cov- 
ered with  trees,  and  the  tower  is  covered  with  ivy.  At 
night,  you  might  fancy  it  a  great  giant,  squat  upon  his 
haunches,  with  long  green  hair,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the 
wind. 

*  Legends  somewhat  similar  to  this  are  to  be  found  in  the  collec- 
tion of  MM.  Grimm.  This,  however,  as  I  received  it,  was  uniformly 
without  the  machinery  of  the  Gold  bird,  as  in  the  "  Deux  Freres" 
(de  Hesse  et  Paderborn),  or  of  the  Animals,  as  in  "  Brunnenhold  und 
Brunnenstark,"  or  "  Guntram  und  Waltram." 

Something  like  the  present  is  doubtless  to  be  found  in  "  Les  Contes 
Populaires  de  la  Normandie ;"  though  I  have  not  been  able  to  see  a 
copy  of  that  work. 


32  Fresh    Gleanings. 

It  is  very  old — so  old,  that  tradition  only  assigns  it  a 
date  of  erection.  It  has  passed  through  the  hands  of  a 
great  many  owners,  but  has  always  been  maintained  in 
perfect  repair.  It  is  even  held  sacred  by  a  great  many 
upon  the  island :  and  throngs  go  to  it  upon  Sundays — 
to  wind  up  its  shaded  mound,  to  scramble  through  the 
little  ruined  chapel  at  its  base,  and  to  toil  up  its  long 
flight  of  steps  to  look  out  upon  the  island.  For  nowhere 
do  you  see  more  of  the  island,  or  do  you  see  it  better; — 
the  checkered  fields, — the  shining  streaks  of  road, — the 
green  lines  of  hedges, — the  high  rock  of  Fort  Regent, — the 
white  city  below  it,  are  as  plain  as  a  painting  to  the  eye. 
In  a  fair  day,  Guernsey  can  be  seen,  and  the  tall  island 
of  Sark  ;  and  Eastward,  over  the  glittering  strip  of  ocean, 
looking  hard  and  fixedly,  one  can  see  a  narrow  white 
point  lifting  above  the  horizon,  and  whoever  you  ask  will 
tell  you  it  is  the  tower  of  the  cathedral  of  Coutances. 
And  if  you  roll  your  eyes  about  like  a  stupid  stranger, 
the  same  informant  will  very  likely  tell  you  the  story  of 
La  Hogue  Bie  : — a  story  that  is  in  the  mouths  of  all  the 
old  wives  of  Jersey.  By  many,  too,  it  is  implicitly 
believed,  nor  shall  I  take  it  upon  myself  to  say  that  it  is 
without  dfcson. 

Long  time  ago,  and  the  marsh  of  St.  Laurence  upon 
the  island  of  Jersey  was  infested  wk*i  a  great  monster — 
dragon-shaped — possibly  a  surviving  member  of  the  great 
family  of  Iguanodi,  of  whose  former  existence  Dr.  Man- 
tell  has  established  the  proof — that  devoured,  without 
pity,  men,  women,  and  children.     The  bravest  warriors 


Lit    Hocie   Bie.  33 

put  on  their  armor  and  went  out  to  fight  the  monster,  but 
the  monster  devoured  them.  The  boldest  tried  to  waylay 
him  at  night  as  he  came  out  from  the  marsh,  but  his  red 
eye  pierced  the  darkness,  and  when  they  saw  it  darting 
out  gleams  of  light,  and  heard  his  huge  body  crackling 
over  the  shrubs,  the  boldest  fled.  A  bullock  was  but  a 
mouthful  for  the  monster,  and  their  flocks  were  all  con 
sumed ; — the  people  lived  in  high  stone  houses  for  dread. 
And  when  their  flocks  were  all  killed,  how  could  they 
live  longer  %  They  made  companies  and  went  out  to 
meet  the  monster;  but  a  single  sweep  of  his  dragon  tail 
swept  down  the  foremost  ranks. 

Now  in  those  times,  there  lived  in  Normandy,  a  most 
valiant  knight,  whose  name  was  De  Hambie.  De  Ham- 
bie  had  heard  of  the  monster  that  spread  such  desolation 
over  the  fair  island  of  Jersey,  and  he  burned  with  desire 
to  give  battle  to  the  Dragon. 

So,  one  day,  when  the  monster  had  gorged  himself  with 
the  noblest  flock  in  the  island,  and  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
upon  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  the  islanders  sent  over  a  mes- 
senger to  De  Hambie,  to  come  and  slay  it.  De  Hambie 
put  on  his  armor  and  took  his  tried  spear,  and  one 
attendant : — and  his  wife,  who  was  young  and  beautiful, 
went  with  him  as  far  as  the  Abbey  of  Coutances,  and 
bade  him  adieu,  in  tears  before  the  altar. 

A  whole  day  De  Hambie  fought  with  the  monster  :  he 
broke  his  tried  spear,  and  two  other  spears  that  his 
attendant  had  given  him  were  broken — one  only  remained. 
Twice  his  shield  had  fallen  clattering  under  the  paw  of 


34  Fresh  Gleanings. 

the  Dragon; — his  mace  was  thrown,  and  the  blood  was 
oozing  through  the  joints  of  his  armor :  his  hand  shook  as 
he  lifted  his  spear  for  the  final  throw. 

St.  Mary  be  praised  !  it  pierced  the  red  eye  of  the 

Dragon — through  eye  and  through  brain  the  rough  boar- 
spear  sped. 

The  monster  howled ; — they  say  his  howling  was  heard 
from  Grosnez  to  Gorey ;  he  turned  over  and  died. 

De  Hambie,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  laid  himself  down 
to  sleep.  Dark  purposes  floated  through  the  mind  of  his 
attendant  as  he  stood  beside  him.  He  thought  of  the 
rich  lands  of  De  Hambie  stretching  through  the  fairest 
valley  of  Normandy ; — he  thought  of  his  castle  so  strong, 
and  his  larder  so  choicely  stocked ; — he  thought  of  his  fair 
young  wife.  None  but  he  had  seen  the  monster  slain ; 
there  would  be  none  to  dispute  his  tale.  In  an  evil  hour 
he  smote  his  sleeping  master,  and  De  Hambie,  who  had 
slain  the  Dragon,  was  himself  slain. 

The  treacherous  servant  went  back  with  this  lying  story 
on  his  lips : — "  Fair  madam,  the  monster  has  slain  the 
noble  De  Hambie,  but  I  have  slain  the  monster.  With 
his  last  words,  my  noble  master  has  commended  his  pool 
servant  to  you."  And,  with  his  lying  lips,  he  kissed  the 
fair  hands  of  the  weeping  widow.  She  mourned  griev- 
ously ; — for  De  Hambie  had  been  good — as  he  was  valiant. 
She  was  grateful  to  the  brave  man  who  had  slain  the 
Dragon,  for  she  believed  the  tale  of  the  treacherous  fol- 
lower, and  in  an  evil  hour,  she  gave  him  her  feand  and 
lands. 


La   Solitude.  35 

A  wicked  conscience  is  never  safe :  '  nemo  mains  fclix' 
— and  the  traitor  babbled  in  his  sleep. 

The  indignant  woman  plunged  a  sword  in  the  heart 
of  the  faithless  villain — the  sword  of  her  noble  husband. 
She  sought  the  spot  on  which  De  Hambie  was  slain  so 
cruelly ; — she  built  a  mound  over  the  spot,  and  upon  the 
mound  a  tower — so  high  she  could  see  it  from  her  window 
of  the  Abbey  of  Coutances. 

The  mound  is  covered  with  trees,  and  the  tower  is 
covered  with  ivy  ; — you  can  see  it  a  little  upon  the  right  of 
the  road  as  you  go  from  Mount  Orgueil  to  St.  Hiliers ; 
— they  call  it  La  Hogue  Bie. 


La    Solitude. 

IT  was  the  name  of  the  little  cottage  where  I  lived  when 
at  Jersey, — Lf  Solitude.  Monsieur  de  Grouchy  could 
not  have  choseT  a  better,  if  he  had  hunted  through  the 
whole  vocabulary  o£  names ;  you  turned  off  down  a  little 
by-way  from  the  high  road  to  St.  Savior's  to  reach  it. 
The  very  first  time  that  I  swung  open  the  green  gate  that 
opens  on  the  by-way,  and  brushed  through  the  laurel 
bushes,  and  read  the  name  modestly  written  over  the 
door,  and  under  the  arbor  that  was  flaunting  in  the  dead 
of  winter  with  rich  green  ivy  leaves, — my  heart  yearned 
toward  it  as  toward  a  home. 

There  were  no  round,  chubby,  bright-eyed  faces  look- 


33  Fresh  Glea  n  i  n  g  s. 

ing  out  of  the  windows  under  the  roof — not  one,  for  my 
landlord  and  landlady  were  childless.  It  was,  indeed, 
La  Solitude.  The  noise  from  the  road  turned  into  a  pleas- 
ant murmur  before  it  reached  the  cottage,  for  it  had  to 
pass  over  the  high  wall  of  my  neighbor's  garden,  and 
over  his  beds  of  cauliflowers,  and  his  broad  alleys  trimmed 
with  box. 

Let  us  step  up  a  moment  into  the  little  parlor  upon 

the  first  floor ;  it  would  not  be  high  enough  to  rank  as  cntre 
sol  in  the  atmosphere  of  St.  Denis; — it  matters  not  one 
straw,  for  I  do  so  dearly  love  to  wander  in  fancy  ovei 
those  humble  wayside  nooks  in  Europe,  which  I  had 
learned  to  call,  for  ever  so  short  a  time, — my  home,  that  I 
shall  be  eternally  interrupting  my  story,  to  peep  at  them 
again  and  again. 

The  curtains  are  of  dark-colored  chintz,  and  there  is  a 
most  capacious  old-fashioned  sofa,  that  is  covered  with  the 
same ;  the  ceiling  is  low,  but  you  need  not  stoop— for  my 
landlady  is  none  of  the  shortest,  and  on  fete  days  she 
wears  stupendous  head-gear.  The  grate  is  English,  and  is 
glowing  in  good  English  fashion  ; — a  cozy  arm-chair  stands 
by  the  corner,  and  a  round,  heavy  table  in  front ;  and  if 
it  be  four  by  the  clock  over*  the  mantle,,  the  table  is  cover- 
ed with  a  snow-white  cloth,  and  it  is  smoking  and  smell- 
ing savory  with  dinner; — on  one  corner  a  tall  bottle  of 
Medoc  is  standing  sentinel,  and  over  opposite — as  a  sort 
of  reserve  guard — more  for  appearances,  than  actual  ser- 
vice— is  a  pot-bellied  little  decanter  of  Sherry.  Under 
the  window, — though  you  can  scarce  get  your  head  out 


La   Solitude.  37 

for  the  trailing  vines,  is  the  green  by-lane.  Further  down 
it,  looking  to  the  left, — is  another  cottage  ;  but  you  cannot 
see  it — -the  trees  are  so  thick ;  I  never  saw  one  of  its  in- 
mates ;  but  sometimes,  just  at  dusk,  I  used  to  hear  a  pair 
of  feet  go  pattering  under  my  window — they  must  have 
been  small  feet — and  used  to  hear  the  snatch  of  a  soft 
song — at  must  have  been  a  young  girl's  voice ;  and  I  often 
thought  that  I  would  ask  my  landlady,  who  lived  in  the 
cottage,  but  I  came  away  and  forgot  it. 

There  stood  another  cottage  at  the  mouth  of  the  lane, 
where  it  left  the  highway.  The  very  first  morning  I 
passed,  a  lady  in  a  snn-bonnet  was  weeding  a  patch  of 
flowers  in  the  yard.— The  next  morning  she  wore  a  better 
bonnet ;  and  so,  between  seeing  her  one  morning  in  one 
bonnet,  and  another  morning  in  another — seeing  her  face 
one  morning,  and  her  back  the  next — I  came  to  be  quite 
familiar  with  her  appearance  and  attitudes,  and  I  dare 
say,  if  I  had  stayed  long  enough,  our  acquaintance  might 
in  time,  have  ripened  to  something  like  chit-chat  over  the 
holly-hedge  that  bordered  her  garden. 

But  I  was  most  familiar  with  my  neighbors  over  the 
way,  the  other  side  of  the  lane";  though  I  never  remember 
to  have  met  a  single  one  of  them,  even  in  my  walks  through 
the  town.  The  intimacy  sprung  up  in  their  garden,  and 
grew  through  my  windows. 

My  landlady  told  me  the  occupants  of  the  cottage  were 
brothers — one  a  bachelor,  and  the  other  married ;  and 
that  his  were  the  two  children,  I  had  seen  tottling  over 
the  gravel-walks  in  the  garden. 


38  Fresh    Gleanings. 

But  my  landlady  had  not  told  me  which  was  the  mar- 
ried man,  and  which  the  Benedick.  It  put  my  ingenuity 
sadly  to  the  test  to  establish  the  difference.  They  were 
not  far  from  the  same  age — one  a  heavy,  florid  man,  with 
a  portly  step — the  other  thin,  not  as  tidily  dressed,  and 
shorter  by  an  inch.  They  sometimes  of  a  morning  walk 
ed  down  the  garden,  and  out  at  the  green  gate  together, 
but  oftener  the  thin  man  was  first  by  a  half  hour  at  the 
least. 

I  tried  to  hang  an  opinion  upon  this,  but  could  not. 
There  was  something,  however,  in  their  ways  of  shutting 
the  door  that  gave  me  for  a  time  strong  hopes  of  determ- 
ining their  respective  conditions.  The  thin,  pale  man, 
uniformly  shut  the  door  very  promptly,  and  occasionally 
with  a  slam;  the  florid  man,  on  the  contrary,  usually  loit- 
ered in  the  half  open  door,  while  he  was  putting  on  his 
gloves,  and  then  closed  it  very  deliberately,  but  impress- 
ively, and  walked  down  the  garden,  as  if  he  were  at  peace 
with  all  the  world.  The  man,  thought  I,  who  closes  the 
door  emphatically  and  promptly,  and  earliest  by  a  half 
hour  (for  here,  the  first-mentioned  observation  comes  in 
very  gracefully  to  sustain  the  last) — as  if  the  world  in- 
doors were  one  thing  to  him,  and  the  world  out-of-doors 
quite  another,  must  be  the husband. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  man  who  loiters  with  the  door 
half  open,  as  if,  I  thought,  the  world  within  and  the  world 
without,  were  all  one  to  him,  must  be — I  was  very  sure  of 
it — the  bachelor  brother. 

The  expression  upon  the  countenance  of  the  last,  tend- 


La    Solitude.  39 

ed  the  more  to  confirm  my  opinion  ;  for,  after  observing  it 
attentively  every  morning  for  a  week,  I  could  discover  no 
expression  at  all,  either  of  joy,  sorrow,  disgust,  or  anxiety — 
one  or  other  of  which,  under  the  circumstances,  would  I 
thought,  very  naturally  sit  upon  the  face  of  a  husband. 

The  pale  man  seemed  to  me  to  have  more  thankfulness 
in  his  nature  ;  and  as  he  felt  first  the  fresh,  cool  air  of  the 
morning,  I  fancied  that  he  breathed  a  sort  of  inward 
thanksgiving  to  Heaven,  for  having  made  such  a  morning, 
and  for  having  given  him  such  a  blessed  opportunity  to 
enjoy  it ; — and  surely,  thought  I,  it  is,  or  ought  to  be,  char- 
acteristic of  a  married  man,  to  be  grateful  for  even  the 
most  trifling  mercies  of  Heaven. 

Toward  noon,  it  always  happened  that  a  small  boy  with 
a  basket,  rung  the  bell  at  the  green  gate,  and  the  maid-of 
all-work  ran  out — always  in  the  same  pea-green  dress, 
slip-shod — to  bring  back  the  steak,  or  joint,  or  brace  of 
fowls,  as  the  case  might  be. 

At  four  precisely,  the  two  brothers,  arm  in  arm,  enter 
the  little  green -gate;  and  four  times  out  of  five,  it  hap- 
pened that  just  at  that  hour,  the  two  little  children  would 
be  frolicking  about  the  garden,  and  that  both  would  set 
off  on  a  canter  down  toward  the  gate,  shouting,  I  fancied, 
(for  I  could  not  hear,)  at  every  jump, — "  Papa — papa !" 

The  florid  man  uniformly  stood  still  for  the  little  girl  to 
come  up,  and  the  pale  man  as  uniformly  advanced  a  step 
to  catch  the  little  boy  in  his  arms. 

Which  was  the  papa  1 — for  my  life  I  could  not  tell. 

They  walk  together  into  the  house ;  presently  the  stout 


40  Fresh    Gleanings. 

man  appears  with  a  knife  in  his  hand — walks  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  garden,  and  cuts  a  huge  bunch  of  celery — he  then 
disappears,  and  I  see  no  more  of  either  till  after  dinner. 

1  have  finished  my  own,  and  am  sitting  before  the 

window,  when  out  come  the  two  brothers,  and  seat  them- 
selves for  a  quiet  smoke  upon  the  bench  beside  the  door. 
The  stout  man  puffs  slowly,  and  at  long  intervals, — and 
throws  his  head  back  against  the  wall — and  clasps  his  hands 
across  the  lower  button  of  his  waistcoat — and  puffs — and 
looks  into  the  sky,  as  if  it  were  all  his  own. 

Happy  man !  thought  I,  without  care,  without  anxieties — 
your  own  robust,  contented  looks,  are,  after  all,  the  best 
proof  of  your  fortunate  estate. 

I  could  not  help  contrasting  his  free  and  easy  appeal  - 
ance  with  that  of  the  poor  man  beside  him.  The  puffs  of 
this  last  were  violent  and  irregular ;  indeed,  his  cigar  was 
gone,  before  that  of  the  stout  man  was  half  consumed.  I 
thought  he  gazed  with  a  look  of  envy  upon  the  careless 
air  of  the  bachelor  brother.  Poor  soul !  from  my  heart  I 
pitied  him. 

—  Meantime  the  children  steal  out ; — the  boy  treads  on 
the  toes  of  the  thin  man,  and  the  little  girl  (and  it  puzzled  me 
for  a  while)  covers  the  face  of  the  stout  man  with  kisses. 

Once  on  a  fair  noon,  after  I  had  resided  a  fortnight 
at  the  cottage — the  mother  made  her  appearance  with  a 
babe  of  only  six  weeks  old  in  her  arms ; — this,  I  deter- 
mined, should  be  the  test.  She  stood  for  a  moment  before 
the  brothers,  as  if  hesitating ;  and  then  with  a  smile,  1 
thought  half  of  irony,  she  put  it  gently  into  the  arms  of 


La   Solitude.  41 

the  thin  man.  He  turned  his  eyes  upward  a  moment — but 
whether  to  thank  Heaven  for  having  given  him  such  a 
babe,  or  in  a  prayerful  wish  that  Heaven  would  make  it 
soon  able  to  take  care  of  itself, — I  could  not  determine. 
The  mother  sits  between  the  brothers,  and  talks  vivaciously 
to  one  and  the  other — never  seeming  to  have  a  single  sen- 
timent of  pity,  for  the  sad  wreck  of  a  husband  beside  her. 
Now,  whether  the  motion  of  the  father's  arms  induced 
the  sensations  of  sea-sickness,  or  whether  the  babe  had 
been  over-fed,  it  suddenly  fell  violently  sick.  The  poor 
man  jumped  up,  with  an  exclamation  that  reached  my  ear 
through  the  window.  And — I  could  not  have  believed  it, 
if  I  had  not  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes — the  mother  and 
brother  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  at  sight 
of  the  thin  man  and  the  sick  baby. — It  was  wrong, — it  was 
inhuman,  but  I  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  poor  devil 
myself;  and  I  was  the  less  disposed  to  resist,  as  I  wanted 
to  enjoy  a  kind  of  triumph  over  my  landlady,  who  was  but 
two  years  married,  and  who  was  taking  the  last  dishes 
from  the  table. 

—  Ha,  ha,  said  I,  Madame,  as  she  came  and  peeped 
over  my  shoulder — voyez  vous, — this  poor  soul — ha,  ha— 
his  own  child 

—  Monsieur !  interrupted  Madame,  looking  me  fixedly 
in  the  face. 

—  Eh,  Men,  Madame,  je  dis — mm — he,  he — que  cepauvre 
diable — ce  mari 

—  But,  Monsieur,  said  Madame,  the  thin  man  is  not  the 
husband 


42  Fresh    Gleanings. 

—  And  the  stout  man — 

—  Is  Monsieur  D ,  the  husband  of  the  lady,  and  the 

father  of  those  pretty  children. 

1  asked  my  landlady  to  draw  the  curtains,  and 

bring  up  candles. 

But  the  time  has  come  to  leave  Jersey ;  and  if  it  is  ob- 
jected by  any,  that  I  give  no  sufficient  account  of  the  so- 
cial habits  of  the  people,  can  I  not  point  back  triumphantly 
with  the  feather-end  of  my  quill  to  the  last  three  pages, 
where  are  drawn  actual  daguerreotypes  of  the  inhabitants 
of  as  many  cottages  1 

Nay,  more ;    have  I  not,  forgetting  my  native 

modesty,  peeped  through  the  chintz  curtains  of  my  win- 
dow, and  so  exposed  to  the  eye  of  the  world,  the  domestic 
secrets  of  my  neighbor's  family  ] 

I  can  only  add,  that  the  people  of  the  island  are  most 
easy  and  familiar  in  their  social  intercourse.  There  is 
about  them  a  bonhommie,  and  he  artfulness  that  makes 
one's  feelings  warm  toward  them.  There  are  no  foolish 
distinctions  in  their  society ;  mere  rank  is  not  insisted  on  ; 
and  every  where  the  stranger  is  received  with  a  most  affa- 
ble courtesy. 

It  was  a  night  in  early  spring,  on  which  I  had  arranged 
my  leave-taking.  Two  months  the  cottage  had  been  my 
home ;  in  that  time,  I  had  gained  my  health  once  more ; 
and  in  that  time,  too,  had  come  to  me — sad,  sad  news 
from  over  the  ocean — and  I  had  wept  bitter  tears  at  that 
home  in  the  cottage. 

But  the  parish  clock  of  St.   Hiliers  has  struck 


La    Solitude.  43 

— the  landlady  calls ;  I  snatch  the  curtain  aside  for  a  last 
look  into  my  neighbor's  garden; — the  moon  lights  up 
pleasantly  the  brown  face  of  the  cottage,  and  silvers 
the  box  borders  and  the  gravel- walks ;  I  give  a  hasty  final 
glance  around  the  parlor, — into  the  grate,  burning  so  cheer- 
fully ;  and  often  since, — in  the  maisons  garnics  of  Paris, — in 
the  dirty  inns  of  the  Apennines,  and  in  the  splendid  hotels 
of  Vienna,  have  I  longed  for  the  quiet  comforts  of  my 
little  home  at  La  Solitude. 


&l)e  toorlo  of  |p  arts. 


THE    WORLD   OF    PARIS. 


Land. 

T  WENT  down  to  the  lee  side  of  the  vessel,  and 
**-  my  eyes  rested  on  a  chalky  line  of  shore  that  rose 
out  of  the  water,  four  or  five  leagues  away — Eastward. 
I  knew  it  must  be  France. 

The  first  sight  of  a  strange  country  does,  somehow  or 
other,  upset  all  of  one's  preconceived  notions. 

If  a  man  gains  knowledge  from  Geography, — he  has  the 
position,  and  shape,  and  boundaries,  and  running  rivers  of 
akingdominhis  eye;  if  hehas  loved  History, — there  stretch- 
es out  under  his  mental  vision,  great  battle-fields,  and  de- 
cayed castles,  and  scattered  tombs  of  warriors  and  kings, 
and  such  groups  of  battered  turrets  as  are  in  thepictures  of 
Froissart,  and  tracks  of  armies ;  if  he  has  striven  after  a 
Social  and  Literary  idea  of  a  kingdom, — such  a  kingdom  as 
France — there  are  thronging  in  his  thoughts — pageants, 
— brilliant  interiors, — tall  and  princely  forms  of  houses,  in 
which  Mesdames  Maintenon  and  Coulanges  may  have 


48  Fresh    Gleanings. 

made  their  wit  to  sparkle — golden  hangings  and  luxurious 
lounges,  and  long  wainscots,  and  big  wigs  of  the  time  of 
the  gallant  Louis  Quatorze — priests  in  embroidered  robes, 
nuns  in  caps, — incense  rising, — lofty  spires  of  cathedrals 
a  little  of  all  this,  had  been  in  my  mind  the  night  be- 
fore, and  whisked  through  my  dreams.  But  in  the  morn- 
ing, as  I  looked  out  Eastward,  there  was  nothing  of  it  at 
all ; — nothing  but  a  low  line  of  chalky  shore,  against  which 
the  green  waves  went  splashing,  in  the  same  careless  way  in 
which  they  go  splashing  over  our  shores  at  home. 

It  seemed  very  odd  to  me  that  the  land  should  be  in- 
deed France  :  but  it  was  ; — and  the  dirty  little  steamer 
"  Southampton"  was  puffing  nearer  and  nearer  to  it  every 
moment. 

A  Norfolk  country  gentleman  stood  beside  me,  who 
like  myself  was  visiting  France  for  the  first  time ;  and 
there  was  that  upon  his  countenance,  which  told  as 
plainly  as  words  could  tell  it,  that  the  same  thoughts  were 
passing  through  his  mind,  as  were  passing  through  mine. 
So  we  stood  looking  over  the  lee-rail  together,  scarce  for 
a  moment  turning  our  eyes  from  the  line  of  shore.  Pres- 
ently we  could  see  white  buildings  dotted  here  and  there. 

—  Very  odd-looking  houses — said  the  Norfolk  country 
gentleman,  laying  down  his  glass. 

—  Very  odd — said  I ;  only  meaning,  however,  to  assent 
to  the  Englishman's  idea  of  oddity,  who  counts  every  thing 
odd,  that  differs  from  what  he  has  been  used  to  see  within 
the  limits  of  his  own  Shire.  It  is  quite  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  a  great  many  English  country  gentlemen, 


Land.  49 

how  any  people  in  the  world  can  have  tastes  differing 
from  their  own;  and  wherever  this  difference  exists  in 
small  things,  or  great,  they  think  it  exceeding  odd. 

I  remember  standing  with  such  a  man,  on  the  Place  be- 
fore St.  Peter's,  on  a  night  of  the  Illumination. The 

lesser  white  lights  had  been  burning  an  hour  over  frieze, 
and  dome,  and  all, — so  that  the  church  seemed  as  if  it  had 
been  painted  with  molten  silver,  upon  a  dark-blue  waving 
curtain ;  and  when  the  clock  struck  the  signal  for  the 
change,  and  the  deep-red  light  flamed  up  around  the  cross 
and  the  ball, — and  along  every  belt  of  the  dome, — and 
blazed  between  the  columns, — and  ran  like  magic  over  the 
top  of  the  facade, — and  shotup  its  crackling  tonguesof  flame 
around  the  whole  sweep  of  the  colonnade,  and  in  every 
door-way — making  the  faces  of  the  thirty  thousand  look- 
ers on  as  bright  as  if  it  was  day — all  upon  the  instant 
—  'Pon  my  soul,  sir — said  the  man  beside  me-— this  is 
dev'lish  odd ! 

—  Dev'lish  odd — thought  I ;  though  I  was  not  in  the 
humor  to  say  it. 

But  to  return  to  the  French  shore : — the  houses  we 
saw,  were  of  plain  white  walls,  and  roofed  with  tiles. 
They  had  not  the  rural  attractiveness  of  English  cottages 
— no  French  cottages  have— but  they  were  very  plainly, 
{substantial,  serviceable  affairs.  Presently  we  could  make 
out  the  forms  of  people  moving  about. 

—  Very  odd-looking  persons,  those — said  the  Norfolk 
country  gentleman,  looking  through  his  glass. 

—  Very  odd — said  I,  looking  in  my  turn ;  for  I  like  to 

C 


59  F  K  E  SII      G  L  E  A  N  I  N  G  S. 

keep  in  liumor  with  the  innocent  fancies  of  a  fellow-trav- 
eller. I  knew  the  men  of  Norfolk  did  not  wear  such  blue 
blouses  as  we  saw  ;  but  aside  from  this,  I  could  not  ob- 
serve any  great  difference  between  the  French  coastmen, 
and  people  I  had  seen  in  other  parts  of  the  world. 

A  little  after,  we  made  the  light,  and  rounded  the  jetty, 
and  saw  groups  of  people,  among  whom  we  distinguished 
port  officers  and  soldiers. 

—  Extraordinary  looking  fellows — said  the  Norfolk 
country  gentleman. 

—  Very,  said  I — half  seriously;  for  the  soldiers  wore 
frock-coats  and  crimson  trowsers,  and  most  uncouth, 
barrel-shaped  hats,  and  little  dirty  moustaches  ;  and  had  a 
swaggering,  careless  air,  totally  unlike  the  trim,  soldier- 
like appearance  of  English  troops. 

In  a  few  moments  we  ran  up  the  dock,  and  caught 
glimpses  of  narrow,  strange  old  streets  ;  and  two  of  the 
gendarmerie  came  up,  arm  in  arm,  and  tipped  their  big 
chapeaux,  and  asked  for  our  passports. 

—  How  very  absurd — said  the  Norfolk  country  gen- 
tleman, as  he  handed  out  his  passport. 

—  Very — said  I,  as  I  gave  up  mine. 

The  quays  were  crowded  with  porters  and  hotel  men, 
quarreling  for  our  luggage  ;  and  here  we  first  heard 
French  talked  at  home. 

—  It  strikes  me  it's  a  veiy  odd  language — said  the  Nor 
folk  country  gentleman. 

—  Very — said  I ;  and  we  stepped  ashore  in  France. 


Going    into    Paris.  51 


Going    into    Paris. 

~\  T  Y  Norfolk  friend  and  I  stop  at  the  same  house  ;— 
<***■«  and  two  or  three  mornings  after,  are  upon  the  deck 
of  the  same  steamer  that  fizzes  up  the  Seine.  Together 
we  looked  upon  the  checkered  fields  that  spread  over  the 
rolling  banks  of  the  river,  and  the  towers  of  old  churches 
that  were  seated  close  down  to  the  water.  As  the  banks 
shut  together  above  Quillebceuf,  the  villages  thickened, 
and  old  timber  houses,  filled  in  with  stone  and  mortar, 
stretched  along  the  river.  Now,  we  began  to  see  those 
avenues,  and  trimmed  tops  of  trees,  which  are  recognized 
by  French  taste,  but  which  my  Norfolk  friend  persisted 
in  calling  most  extraordinary  affairs.  Now,  too,  as  we 
lay  off  the  larger  villages,  began  to  show  itself  the  listless, 
pleasure-loving  air  of  the  French  peasantry. — The  port- 
el's  lay  down  their  burdens,  and  lean  against  the  houses  to 
look  at  the  steamer  as  it  passes  ;  women  in  the  doorways 
stand  with  their  arms  akimbo,  and  their  round  faces  as 
free  of  thought,  as  if  there  were  not  a  care,  or  a  labor  ir 
life.  Now  and  then  in  a  larger  village,  there  is  music 
upon  the  quay,  and  a  crowd  of  boys,  and  women,  antt 
workmen,  throng  about  it ; — the  little  drummer  flourishes 
his  sticks,  with  his  head  thrown  one  side,  and  an  eye  to 
the  women,  and  our  passing  company ; — the  fifer  blows 
his  very  loudest,  and  I  can  see  his  foot  beating  time — the 


»2  Fresh    Gleaninos. 

girls,  rosy  and  bright,  look  tenderly  at  them — look  ten* 
derly  at  us  ;  the  boys  in  their  short,  blue  smock-frocks  are 
gleeful  as  the  music  ; — the  boat  fizzes  along ; — the  group 
on  the  quay  grows  confused ; — the  houses  mingle  into  a 
patch  of  white  upon  the  shore,  with  an  old  gray  towei 
among  them ;  and  soon  a  turn  in  the  ever-winding  Seine 
shuts  them  wholly  from  our  sight.  So  they  pass  us — 
wooded  shores,  glimpses  of  forests,  dells  opening  up 
sweet  landscapes  —  then  change  to  banks  rolling,  and 
waving  with  ripened  grain. 

So  we  pass  Lillebonne,  and  most  beautiful  Caudebec, 
and  the  twin  towers  of  Jumiege.  They  say  that  under 
these  towers  are  the  tombs  of  two  princes,  sons  of  Clovis 
II.,  and  the  story  of  them  is,  that  they  fought  against  their 
father.  Their  father  took  them  prisoners,  and  in  the 
night  went  into  their  dungeon  with  a  swordsman,  and 
cut  the  sinews  of  their  arms  and  legs,  as  they  lay  in  their 
chains ; — then  bound  them  with  cords,  and  put  them  in  a 
little  boat  upon  the  swift-running  Seine,  to  find  their  way 
to  the  sea.  Away  they  went  whirling  over  the  greedy 
waters, — on  and  on,  for  there  were  not  then  many  villages, 
nor  many  boats  upon  the  river — a  day  and  two  nights 
they  floated — their  limbs  bleeding,  their  mouths  unfed — 
until  the  monks  of  Jumiege  spied  them  over  against 
their  abbey  and  brought  them  to  land,  and  tended  them 
kindly  till  they  died.  And  the  monks  cut  their  effigies  on 
their  tomb ;  and  the  effigies,  though  worn  and  disfigured, 
are  in  the  abbey  yet,  and  you  can  read  their  sad  epitaph 
— Les  Encrvk 


Going    into    Paris.  5,3 

But  lo  !  in  the  valley  before  us,  the  tall  towers  of 

Rouen  !  The  Norfolk  country  gentleman  thought  it  an 
odd  old  town,  but  stopped  there  to  learn  the  odd  lan- 
guage they  spoke.  I  bade  him  adieu  on  the  inn  steps 
some  days  after,  telling  him  that  I  went  on  to  study  at 
Paris — for  which,  I  dare  say,  he  thought  me  a  very  odd 
sort  of  person. 

Away  to  the  left  of  our  track,  in  the  plain,  through 
which  flows  the  Seine,  after  running  hour  upon  hour 
through  bellowing  tunnels,  and  by  chateaux  upon  heights 
— appears  a  tall  cathedral  spire,  and  a  forest  of  turrets 
under  it.  I  know  it  can  be  no  other  than  St.  Denis,  the 
burial-place  of  the  kings ;  and  by  that  sign  I  know  that 
Paris,  the  capital  city,  is  near  by ;  for  I  remember  how 
Froissart  said,  that  when  King  John  of  France,  brother 
of  Edward,  who  died  in  England,  was  brought  back  for 
burial,  the  clergy  of  Paris  "  went  on  foot  beyond  St. 
Denis*  to  meet  the  bier." 

And  now, — out  of  the  window, — as  we  glide  round  a 
curve  high  above  the  river  and  the  plain,  comes  a  view 
of  the  great  capital — the  longed-for  Paris,  gay  Paris,  la 
belle  viUe,  enchanting  city — lying  in  the  clear  sunshine 
stretched  upon  the  plain  ; — no  mist  lies  over  it — no  folds 
of  smoke  rest  on  it — no  cloud — no  shadow  of  cloud : 
a  glittering  heap  it  lies — the  Seine  glittering  in  its  midst. 
The  valley  is  a  great  savannah,  here  and  there  rolling  up 


*  Chronicles  of  England  and  France.     Sir  John  Froissart,  Chap. 
222,  Book  I. 


54  F  r  e  s  h    Gleanings. 

waves  of  hills,  but  nowhere  is  there  sight  of  mountain  ; 
fortresses  pile  up  gray  and  old  from  the  green  bosom  of  the 
plain ;  but  around,  and  back  of  all,  the  blue  sky  comes  down 
and  touches  the  tops  of  the  vineyards  that  grow  in  the  valley. 

I  see  two  old  brown  towers  in  the  town  rising  above 
the- houses,  and  know  they  must  be  the  towers  of  Notre- 
Dame.  I  see  a  dome  lifting  above  all  other  domes,  and 
know  it  must  be  the  dome  des  Inv alleles ;  I  see  a  great 
gray  hulk  of  building,  floating,  as  it  were,  in  a  sea  of 
trees — I  know  it  must  be  the  old  palace  in  its  garden ;  I 
see  in  the  farthest  cluster  of  the  houses,  where  they  al- 
most fade  into  the  horizon  line,  a  pillar,  and  something 
glittering  upon  its  top — a  winged,  gilded  angel — and  the 
angel  stands  upon  the  column  where  the  tall  and  terrible 
B  as  tile  stood.  I  see  another  shaft :  it  is  a  single  stone, 
tapering  and  pointed,  and  there  seems  an  open  spot* 
around  it  where  the  sun  shines  on  the  pavement,  and 
glistens,  as  it  were,  on  two  great  globules  of  spray — 
I  know  it  for  the  column  of  Luxor,  and  though  it  is  a 
stone's  throw  away  from  the  bank  of  the  river,  yet  in 
the  dark  days  of  France,  a  stream  of  pure  blood  ran  all 
the  way  from  it,  and  urged  its  heavy,  sluggish,  damning 
current  through  the  parapet  wall,  and  fell  splashing  upon 
the  thick,  foul  waters  of  the  Seine! 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  luxurious  in  way  of  seat, 
than  a  first-class  French  car :  you  sit  upon  figured  white  silk 


*  Flace  de  la  Concorde. — The  station  of  the  guillotine  during  the 
Reign  of  Terror. 


Going    into    Paris.  55 

or  damask,  and  cushions  yielding  to  your  slightest  move- 
ment ; — you  have  them  at  your  side,  you  have  them  for 
your  head  ; — Brussels  carpet  to  tread  upon — silk  curtains 
to  shut  out  the  sun ;  and  their  construction  below,  is  such 
that  you  feel  no  jar,  but  seem  to  be  swimming  through 
the  air. 

All  the  French  roads  are  well  constructed ;  I  do  not 
know  that  they  are  better  essentially  than  the  English — 
being  very  similar  in  general  appearance  ;  but  I  had 
always  a  greater  feeling  of  safety  in  French  carriages — 
owing,  perhaps,  to  less  rate  of  speed.  The  police  regu 
lations  are  admirably  arranged  and  enforced.  Speed 
averages  from  twenty  to  thirty  miles  the  hour;  the  en- 
gines have  been,  hitherto,  mostly  of  English  construction, 
but  are  now  manufactured  at  Paris.  There  is,  perhaps, 
less  of  travel  upon  the  French  railways  than  upon  any  of 
the  Continent,  and  surely  fir  less  than  upon  those  of 
Great  Britain.  The  French  travel  very  little  for  amuse- 
ment— very  little  in  their  own  country  for  observation; 
this  arises,  in  some  measure,  from  the  monotonous  char- 
acter of  their  roads,  offering  little  to  arrest  the  attention 
of  the  ordinary  observer,  and  still  less  to  gratify  the  tastes 
of  those  so  essentially  polltan  in  feeling  as  the  French 
nation;  they  find  their  resources  in  their  capitals — they 
neither  wish  nor  seek  for  better  things:  a  few  wander 
away  during  summer  to  the  mountain  towns  of  the  Pyre- 
nees— a  few  to  the  baths  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  and  some  to 
the  sea ;  but  most  content  themselves  best  with  the  gay- 
eties  and  glitter  of  the  city.     Business  negotiations  are 


f> J  FeESH     G  L  EAN1NC  S. 

arrang-ed  by  the  professed  commercial  travelers,  and  as 
a  consequence,  the  number  of  those  traveling  for  business 
purposes  is  exceedingly  limited. 

That  restless,  moving,  curious  spirit  which  is  driving 
Americans  to  every  quarter  of  the  earth,  meets  with  no 
sympathy  from  a  Frenchman  ;  it  is  a  mystery  to  him — he 
believes  inquietude  belongs  to  travel,  and  he  can  not  con- 
ceive how  any  should  enjoy  inquietude.  There  belongs 
to  this  feeling  none  of  the  Briton's  cherishment  of  home ; 
were  it  so,  it  would  be  irreconcilable  with  his  turbulent, 
excitable,  and  rebellious  spirit.  It  is  because  he  is  essen- 
tially gregarious  in  his  nature,  that  the  Frenchman  can 
not  understand  how  the  separation  or  dispersion  that  is 
incident  to  travel,  can  be  source  of  enjoyment.  Even  the 
wild  turbulency  to  which  his  restless  spirit  is  disposed,  is 
but  an  extravaganza  in  his  lifetime  of  pleasure, — but 
a  new  scene-shifting,  without  any  change  of  theatre. 
Hence  it  is,  that  less  will  be  seen  of  the  French  upon 
their  highways  of  travel,  than  of  any  nation  in  Europe. 

Returning  now  to  the  luxurious  carriage,  let  the  reader 
imagine  himself,  with  all  Paris  in  his  eye,  and  with  so 
much  French  on  his  tongue,  as  will  enable  him  to  pro- 
nounce intelligibly  the  words  Hotel  Maurice  ;  and  with  so 
much  understanding  of  all  the  questions  that  are  addressed 
to  him,  whether,  "  Ou  hgez  rous  ?"  or  "  Combien  de  malles 
arez  rous?"  that  he  replies  to  one  and  all  with  the  air  of 
a  man,  who  knows  very  well  what  he  is  talking  about, 
Hotel  Meurice — with  such  stock,  I  say,  of  ready  conversa- 
tion on  hand — le?;  the  reader  imagine  himself  hurtling  over 


Going    into   Paris.  5? 

the  last  bridge  on  the  railway  from  Rouen,  to  the  capital 
city. 

In  the  comer  is  a  red-faced  man  in  brown  gaiters  and 
plaid  trowsers,  and  if  your  knowledge  of  French  has  led 
you  to  venture  some  trifling  remark,  it  will  have  been  met 
with  an  ominous  shake  of  the  head,  that  has  made  you 
inwardly  curse  your  awkward  pronunciation.  And  if, 
unfortunately,  you  shall  have  made  a  second  venture,  with 
a  little  previous  practice  under  breath,  you  will  have  met 
with  a  still  more  ominous  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  re- 
pulsive gesture  that  sets  communication  at  defiance.  Noi 
will  you,  perhaps,  in  your  ignorance  of  dress  and  habi- 
tude, have  suspected  your  companion  for  an  Englishman, 
until  you  hear  him  utter  a  string  of  stout  English  oaths  at 
the  officers  of  the  Octroi,  who  insist  upon  overhauling  his 
luggage  now, — for  the  third  time. 

Later  experiences  would  teach  you  that  a  first  class 
carnage  is  no  place  to  study  French  habits,  for  the  rea- 
son, that  French  travellers  in  general,  are  bettor  consulters 
of  economy,  than  to  ride  in  them  ;  and  further,  that  nine 
out  of  ten  first  class  passengers  are  English,  who  will  not 
speak  French — often  because  they  can  not,  and  who  do 
not  speak  English,  because  they  will  not.  Can  stronger 
reasons  be  imagined  % 

To  return  once  more ;  you  cross  the  heavy,  shaking 
timber  bridge — you  drive  through  the  bellowing  tunnels, 
and  you  come  to  a  stop  within  the  rich  iron  palisades  of 
the  Station  of  Paris.  Eager,  strange  faces  are  looking 
through  the  barrier.     You  find  your  portmanteau  upon 


58  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  benches  of  the  Octroi — you  unlock  wonderingly  ;  the 
long  fingers  of  the  officer  probe  it  to  the  bottom. 

—  Cest  jini,  Monsieur — quelque chose dvotre  discretion? 
— says  the  Examiner  ? 

—  Hotel  Meurice. 

The  Examiner  turns  up  his  nose  at  you,  as  an  incorri- 
gible dog. 

The  porter  has  caught  your  destination,  and  puts  your 
portmanteau  upon  the  Omnibus,  and  he  has  shown  you  a 
seat,  and  pulls  off  his  hat — Le  facteur — Monsieur — quel- 
que chose— pour  boire  ? 

—  Hotel  Meurice. 

The  coachman  cracks  his  whip ;  the  conductor  takes 
his  place. 

— Mais,  Monsieur — says  the  pleading  facteur — quelque 
chose — quelqu' argent  ? 

— Hotel  Meurice. 

— Que  Diable  / — Mais,  Monsieur — 

The  thought  occurs,  that  your  pronunciation  may  be 
still  misunderstood — and  to  be  lost  the  first  day  in  Paris ! 
You  seize  your  pencil,  and  write  in  plain  characters  upon 
a  leaf  of  your  pocket-book — Hotel  Meurice.  You  beckon 
to  the  desponding  facteur — he  gathers  new  energy — he 
reaches  up  his  hand — you  put  in  it  the  slip  of  paper. 

—  Sacr-r-r-r-r-r-r-e  ! — says  the  man — you  turn  a  corner, 
md  the  poor  facteur  has  vanished.  Your  companions  of 
'. le  omnibus  are  too  well  bred  to  smile;  but  they  look 
rtrongly  tempted.  How  uncomfortable  to  be  alone  for 
the  first  time  in  Paris ! 


First   Scenes.  59 


First     Scenes. 

TTSTHAT  strange,  red,  waxed  floors  are  these  in  the 
"  "  fifth  story  of  the  Hotel  Meurice — and  what  a 
queer  little  bed,  in  which  a  short  man  can  not  lie  straight ! 
You  open  the  window — they  open  like  a  door,  the  win- 
dows of  Paris — and  you  look  into  the  square  court  of  the 
inn.  It  is  clean,  and  brightly  paved  ;  a  travelling-carriage 
of  huge  dimensions,  and  becovered  with  trunks  of  ev.ery 
imaginable  shape,  is  drawn  up  in  one  corner,  and  a  cour- 
ier with  a  gilt  band  upon  his  hat  is  strutting  back  and 
forth.  A  knot  or  two  of  men,  looking  like  as  possible  to 
the  people  you  have  left  behind  you  in  England,  are  talk- 
ing under  the  archway  ;  and  though  you  can  not  hear  the 
words  they  are  using — the  house  is  so  high — yet  surely 
there  is  no  mistaking  that  genuine  British  laugh. 

If  you  go  below,  you  will  see  two  or  three  men  writing 
violently  at  the  desks  of  the  Bureau,  and  any  one  of  them 
will  address  you  in  English.  But  it  is  in  a  strange  accent, 
and  the  whole  place  seems  strange.  Step  to  the  other 
side  of  the  court,  at  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and  you  en- 
ter a  rich  saloon — la  salle  a  manger.  There  is  none  of  that 
hurry  of  entrance  that  belongs  to  the  dinner-call  at  home  ; 
every  one  is  quite  easy — quite  confident  that  there  will  be 
place,  and  that  there  will  be  time.  Nor  does  one  see  the 
barbarous  custom  of  our  cities,  of  feeding  the  two  sexes 


60  F  a  e  s  li    G  l  i:  a  <%  j  x  c  s. 

apart;  but  there  are  elegant  ladies  scattered  up  and  down 
the  table — the  surest  guaranties  of  good  order,  and  of 
good  breeding.  It  may  be  very  well  to  say  that  the  busi- 
ness habits  of  Americans  require  a  haste  and  abruptness 
not  compatible  with  the  presence  of  the  gentler  sex ;  but 
surely  nothing  so  much  as  their  absence  makes  a  man 
forget  those  finer  courtesies  of  the  table,  which  much  as 
any  thing,  in  every  country,  mark  the  character  of  the 
gentleman.  And  I  suggest,  for  whomever  it  may  concern, 
if  in  this  thing,  the  hot-brained  haste  of  Americans  should 
not  give  place  to  a  cultivation  of  some  of  the  more  attract- 
ive graces  of  life  1 

There  are  English,  indeed,  who  choose  their  own  par- 
lors and  seclusion,  carrying  abroad  with  them,  in  some 
measure  through  necessity,  those  habits  of  segregation 
which  belong  to  their  classes  at  home. 

Flowers  and  fruits  in  pretty  array  stretch  down  the 
French  table-d'hote,  and  the  dishes  surprisingly  small,  to 
one  accustomed  to  American  habits  of  abundance,  are 
served  by  English-speaking  waiters.  There  is  a  charm 
in  the  quiet  and  the  nicety ;  and  there  is  an  ease  and  free- 
dom, without  vulgar  familiarity,  rarely  seen  in  France,  out 
of  Paris,  but  which  belong  peculiarly  to  the  first  hotels 
of  Switzerland,  and  the  German  baths. 

After  dessert,  for  there  is  little  sitting  over  wine  at  a 
French  table,  one  lounges  into  the  coffee  or  smoking-room 
the  other  side  of  the  court,  or  out  under  the  arches  of  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  or  across  the  way  into  the  great  garden  of 
the  Tuileries,  among  t  "3  throngs  that  are  wearing  out 


First   Scenes.  61 

the  after-dinner  hour,  in  gossiping  under  the  lindens  and 
among  the  oranges.  Nursery-maids  with  flocks  of  chil- 
dren, old  ladies  with  daughters,  old  men  with  canes,  aie 
walking,  sitting,  laughing,  reading — for  the  sun  is  yet  a 
half  a  degree  above  the  top  of  the  distant  Arc  de  l'Etoile. 
Its  outline  rises  firm  against  the  red  evening  sky.  You 
can  almost  distinguish  the  sculptures  of  its  cornice,  though 
it  is  a  mile  away,  and  a  sea  of  bright  green  foliage  is 
waving  between.  Or  if  you  stand  in  the  middle  of  the 
garden — in  the  middle  of  tl  A  entrance-way  to  the  palace 
— you  may  see  the  whole  arch  from  top  to  bottom,  up  a 
long,  smooth  avenue,  whose  further  end  is  dotted  with 
carnages  of  a  hundred  sizes  in  the  long  perspective. 
The  column  of  Luxor  rises  black  in  the  middle  scene ; 
group  upon  group  of  people  pass  out  at  the  gateway — 
under  the  column — up  the  avenue ;  all  the  while,  the 
rustling  of  a  tall  fountain — the  laughs  of  playing  children, 
in  your  ear — all  the  while  their  bright  faces  and  curling 
locks,  and  the  sparkle  of  the  water  in  your  eye;  and  be- 
fore you,  stretching  out  to  where  the  arch,  the  monument 
of  Napoleon's  genius,  strides  upon  the  sky — is  the  brilliant 
perspective,  as  gay  and  wondrous  with  its  moving  multi- 
tudes as  a  dream. 

Just  at  the  left,  upon  entering  the  gate,  over  against  the 
hotel,  is  a  long,  low,  verandah-looking  building,  with 
swarms  of  people  at  round  tables  in  front  of  it,  where 
they  are  drinking  little  cups  of  coffee,  with  a  thimble-full 
of  brandy — and  so  dissipate  an  hour  at  the  cheap  rate  of 
half-a-fr;  nc. 


62  F  u 


E  A  NINO  S. 


Let  us  walk  up  and  sit  down  at  one  of  the  empty  tables 
—there  is  no  one  to  stare  at  you,  be  as  awkward  as  you 
may — your  accent  ludicrously  strange;  you  may  spill 
your  ice  upon  the  ground — you  may  upset  your  chair- 
there  is  no  one  to  smile  at  your  clumsiness,  and  you  feel 
that  you  are  not  among  English — that  you  are  not  among 
Americans. 

So  we  watch  the  swarm  of  persons  grouping  away 

into  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  the  vast  extent  of  the  old 
gray  palace,  lengthening  away  into  obscurity — as  sombre 
and  thought-stirring,  seen  thus  for  the  first  time  in  the 
dusk  of  evening,  as  has  been  its  history.  There  are  jour- 
nals scattered  over  the  tables,  if  there  were  not  richer 
interest  in  observing  than  in  reading;  and  the  evening 
drums  are  beating  as  the  battalion  moves  down  from  the 
Place  Vendome,  and  their  noise  dies  upon  the  ear,  as  they 
scatter  over  the  city.  The  loungers  lessen  at  the  little 
tables — the  crowd  go  out  of  the  iron  gates  one  by  one,  and 
the  tall  sentinels  permit  none  to  come  in.  The  lamps  of 
the  Cafe,  where  I  have  been  sitting,  are  put  out — the 
white-aproned  waiter  gathers  up  the  journals — and  it  is 
night  in  the  garden,  though  in  the  city  it  has  hardly  be- 
gun. 

At  going  out  of  the  gate,  is  a  man  with  a  strange  tin 
temple  upon  his  back,  covered  with  crimson  satin,  and 
from  under  each  arm  are  peeping  out  silver-tipped  watei- 
spouts,  like  the  keys  of  a  Scotch  bag-pipe,  and  he  tinkles 
a  bell,  which  means  (for  he  says  nothing)  that  for  a  couple 
of  sous,  he  will  draw  you  from  his  temple,  a  glass  of  what 


First   Scenes.  63 

he  has  the  assurance  to  call  lemonade.  Perhaps  an  old 
woman  is  hanging  off  a  yard  or  two,  with  a  tray  of  very 
indigestible-looking  cakes,  which  will  be  needed  by  who 
ever  ventures  the  lemonade,  and  the  last  doubly  needed, 
by  whoever  favors  the  old  lady's  cakes.  There  is  an  un- 
derstanding between  the  dealers.  Gateways  are  favorite 
stations  for  them,  and  at  all  the  gateways  in  Paris  you 
may  find  them.  Sometimes  one  saunters  up  the  Boule- 
vard des  Italiens — sometimes  under  the  obelisk  of  Luxor, 
and  on  occasions  they  are  adventurous  enough  to  appear 
within  the  aristocratic  precincts  of  the  Place  Vendome. 
Their  customers  are, — workpeople  in  blouses, — small  and 
unruly  boys,  who  are  led  about  by  nursery-maids,  and 
families  of  provincial  tourists. 

I  stroll  along  the  heavy  palisade  of  the  garden,  looking 
into  the  faces  of  the  passers,  and  following  with  my  eye 
the  red,  green,  and  blue  lights  of  the  heavy  coaches  for 
Neuilly,  and  Passy,  and  the  Arch  of  Triumph,  which  go 
thundering  by.  As  if  in  a  quiet,  but  a  strange  dream,  I 
wander  on ; — here  I  meet  a  sergent-de-ville  in  his  heavy 
chapeau,  with  his  light  long-sword,  becoming  his  tall, 
erect  figure ; — he  gives  me  one  glance — I  Can  read  in  it — 
un  Anglais  —  and  he  passes  on ;  but  his  presence,  even 
for  the  moment,  makes  me  feel  safe.  Before  T  am  aware 
I  am  on  the  great,  glittering  Place  de  la  Concorde ; — the 
lamps  on  their  brazen  columns  are  glittering  on  every  side, 
and  the  giant  fountains  are  throwing  up  with  a  roar  their 
torrents  of  water.  One  way  I  catch  a  glimpse,  through 
an  avenue  of  lights,  of  the  classic  front  of  the  Madeleine — 


04  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  other  way,  over  the  bridge,  are  the  heavy  colurnns  of 
the  Chamber  of  the  Deputies ;  and  the  obelisk,  beneath 
which  I  stand,  lifts  its  mysterious  tapering  finger  into  the 
blue  heavens  above  me. 

On  this  spot  sprang  up  that  quarrel  between  the  peo- 
ple and  the  soldiery  in  1789,  which  ripened  into  the 
darkest  days  the  modern  world  has  known.  Here  had 
its  station  the  dreadful  guillotine ;  —  down  that  avenue 
went  the  carts  lumbering  with  the  headless  bodies  of  the 
dead ; — there,  under  those  trees  of  the  Champs  Elysees, 
skulked  the  devils  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  to  see  the 
blood  shed,  a  sacrifice  to  their  madness ; — there  skulked 
too,  men  with  forms  bent  forward,  and  trembling  with  ea- 
gerness— looking  at  the  up-turned  faces  of  the  dead  ones, 
to  see  if  by  chance,  there  was  the  face  of  some  brother, 
or  son ; — there  were  the  frightfully  pale  faces  of  women, 
with  eyes  fixed  and  tearless — never  lifting  their  feet  from 
the  wandering  currents  of  blood — their  natures  changed 
by  horror,  in  those  days  of  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

— —  Ah,  Robespierre,  and  Danton,  and  brother  Dumas, 
and  Desmoulins  who  gloated  at  the  blood  running  here — 
devils  as  you  were,  and  as  you  are — your  own  gory  heads 
went  tumbling  and  thumping  after  all,  over  these  stones, 
and  your  dead  tongues  protruded,  tasted  the  blood  you 
had  made  to  flow !  Poor  Louis  XVJ. !  poor  Marie  An- 
toinette— so  gentle — so  beautiful — with  such  an  impas- 
sioned eulogist  as  Burke — no  sword  sprung  from  its  scab- 
bard to  defend  husband  or  wifo  on  this  terrible  spot ! 
The  age  of  chivalry  had  gone. 


First   Scenes.  65 

Brissot,  Charlotte  Corday,  Louis  Duke  of  Or- 
leans, Marie  Helene, — h.ow  little  I  thought,  when  read- 
ing your  sad  stories,  that  on  my  first  night  in  Paris — so 
bright  and  beautiful  a  night  as  it  was — I  should  stand 
upon  the  very  spot  where  the  clanging  and  glittering 
knife  came  down  upon  your  necks  ! 

I  remembered  too,  how  at  a  later  day — when  the  blood- 
stains were  dried  upon  the  spot,  an  altar*  had  been  built, 
and  the  Austrians,  and  Prussians,  and  Russians  had  gath- 
ered here — and  I  thought  how  glorious  a  thing  it  must 
have  been,  to  have  listened  to  a  Te  Deum  sung  in  the 
midst  of  them,  and  to  have  heard  the  click  of  ten  thou- 
sand swords  upon  the  pavement,  as  the  armies  knelt  down 
in  prayer ! 

With  vague  recollections  haunting  me,  I  wandered  round 
and  round  the  obelisk,  and  went  down  to  the  parapet  wall 
by  the  Seine,  and  saw  the  dark  shadow  of  the  bridge,  and 
the  moon  reflected  in  the  water — never  thinking  now  of 
the  crowds  passing  me,  —  my  thoughts  busy  with  the 
past;  but  I  noticed  that  the  steps  were  growing  fewer, 
and  the  moon  was  getting  higher,  as  I  strolled  back  to  the 
Inn. 

And  these  were  the  first  scenes,  and  these  my  first 
thoughts  in  Paris. 

*  1814     I/Histoire  de  Napoleon. 


66         Fresh  Gleanings. 


The  Valet  and  the  Merchant. 

A  MONG  the  first,  and  most  interesting  acquaintances 
-*-■*-  which  the  stranger  finds  at  Paris, — and  they  may 
be  found  in  other  parts  of  the  world, — are  the  valets  de 
place.  The  court  and  neighborhood  of  the  Hotel  Meu- 
rice,  are,  I  am  enabled  to  say  from  experience,  particu- 
larly favored  in  this  respect.  They  talk  English  to  a 
charm, — they  can  understand  the  very  worst  of  French, 
and  say  with  an  air  that  goes  quite^to  the  heart: — 
Monsieur  parle  fort  Men  ;  sa  jyrononciation  est  v raiment 
charmante. 

How  is  there  any  resisting  the  advances  of  such  a 
man  ]  Besides,  he  knows  the  town  throughout : — the 
best  eating-houses — the  best  shops,  and  the  churches  to  a 
fault.  His  conversation  is  piquant ;  he  overflows  with  a 
fund  of  light  and  lively  anecdote ;  he  is  a  perfect  chroni- 
cler of  dates  and  events — not  barely  those  commonplace 
ones  which  have  crept  into  printed  histories,  but  his 
observations  are  more  recondite ;  what  forsooth,  cares  he 
for  such  notable  truths,  as  that  in  1770  a  thousand  per- 
sons were  crushed  to  death  upon  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde— or  that  a  company  of  lancers  were  cut  to  pieces 
about  the  Porte  St.  Martin  1  But  when  he  tells  you,  with 
all  the  energy  of  inspiration,  some  piivate  details  of  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew — or  that  the  surgeons  in  the 


The  Valet  and  the  Merchant.   67 

Hotel  Dieu  cut  off,  regularly,  two  legs  a-day  before  break- 
fast, and  gives  you  sundry  memoirs  of  the  dead  bodies  at 
the  Morgue — you  may  well  congratulate  yourself  on  find- 
ing so  efficient  an  aid  for  exploring  the  wonders  of 
Paris. 

What  is  five  francs  a-day  to  a  man  of  such  resourceful 
spirit  ]  You  want  a  book — who  can  do  without  Galig- 
nani's  Paris  Guide  ]  He  takes  you  to  the  first  shop  of 
the  town,  and  at  the  naming  of  the  price,  your  valet 
whispers  you,  in  an  under  tone,  and  confidentially, — 
fery  sheep — fery  sheep  indeed. 

Meekly  you  pay  the  price,  and  as  you  go  out,  our 
shopkeeper  puts  a  franc  or  two  in  the  hands  of  the  valet 
— which  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Whatever  may  be 
wished,  you  will  find  the  same  obliging  willingness  on  the 
part  of  the  valet,  and  the  same  business  knowledge  of 
localities.  You  may  find,  indeed,  from  some  good-natured 
friend  or  other,  who  knows  the  city  better  than  yourself, 
that  you  have  been  paying  double  prices,  no  small  part 
of  which  was  in  commissions  to  your  valet ;  and  that  you 
have  been  listening  to  a  great  many  cock-and-bull  sto- 
ries. But  all  this  only  adds  to  your  lively  experience  of 
the  gay  capital,  and  should  neither  put  you  out  of  humor 
with  yourself,  or  your  worthy  domestic ; — for  to  be  out  of 
humor  with  one's  self,  is  always  profitless ; — and  to  be 
out  of  humor  with  your  conductor,  would  only  give  scope 
for  renewed  politeness  in  the  form  of  apologies,  on  the 
part  of  that  individual, — afford  him  some  private  amuse- 
ment, and  in  no  way  lessen  his  disposition  to  pursue  a 


68  Fresh   Gleanings. 

profession,  in  which  he  is  duly  educated,  and  for  which 
he  has  been  duly  licensed. 

Indeed,  whoever  passes  three  days  for  the  first  time  in 
Paris,  without  being  thoroughly  and  effectually  cheated, 
— so  that  he  has  an  entire  and  vivid  consciousness  of 
his  having  been  so  cheated, — must  be  either  subject  to 
some  strange  mental  hallucination  which  denies  him  the 
power  of  a  perception  of  truth,  or  he  is  an  extraordinary 
exception  to  all  known  rules.  And  the  sooner  a  man 
leams  this,  and  learns  to  take  it  good-naturedly,  the 
better  for  his  sleep, — and  the  better  for  his  appetite.  I 
thought  two  visits  to  the  capital  had  opened  my  eyes  to 
this ;  yet,  on  the  first  morning  after  my  last  arrival  in 
Paris,  I  was  foolish  enough  to  get  angry,  for  only  having 
to  pay  four  francs  for  a  bed — in  which  I  could  not  sleep, 
and  four  more  for  bad  ham,  and  wine  which  I  could  not 
drink.  I  tried  to  scold  : — but  it  is  what  a  man  of  shrewd- 
ness should  never  try  to  do  at  Paris, — most  of  all,  for  so 
ordinary  a  circumstance  as  being  cheated :  the  Parisian 
smiles — and  bows,  and  thinks  you  may  have  a  colic ;  but 
never  once  fancies  a  stranger  can  be  so  foolish  as  to 
resent  being  cheated  at  Paris  : — make  a  bow — thank  the 
garcon —  ask  for  a  match  to  light- your  cigar,  and  he 
will  see  you  are  a  man  who  knows  the  world,  and  are 
to  be  respected  accordingly. 

To  return  to  the  valet, — the  sooner  one  can  get  rid 

of  him  the  better.  I  remember  crowding  my  way  into  a 
tent-booth  on  a  fair-day  at  Strasburg,  and  waiting 
inside  until  an  Amaam  in  short  petticoats,  had  finished  a 


The    Valet   and   the   Merchant.     69 

fencing-match  with  a  soldier  of  the  garrison— to  see  a 
panoramic  view  of  the  chief  cities  of  the  world,  among 
which  were  New  York  and  New  Haven.  And  on  com- 
paring the  canvas  with  my  recollections,  I  think  the 
burghers  of  Strasburg  may  have  had  very  nearly  as 
correct  an  idea  of  those  American  cities,  as  the  stranger 
may  have  of  Paris,  who  makes  his  point  of  observation 
the  Hotel  Meurice,  and  employs  as  exponents  of  the 
scene,  (corresponding  to  the  magnify ing-glasses  of  the 
panorama,)  the  English-speaking  valets-de-place.  They 
will  indeed,  show  the  stranger  the  more  prominent 
objects  of  curiosity — the  technical  "  sights"  of  the  city, 
the  palaces,  the  churches,  the  galleries, — they  may  take 
him  to  some  strange  ball  scenes  at  evening ;  but  of  the 
lesser,  every-day  features — the  unobtrusive  things  which 
give  color  to  a  correct  picture  of  the  Parisian  world — 
they  will  show  little  or  nothing.  What,  pray — will  the 
valet-guided  stranger  know  of  all  the  hotels  garnis,  which 
make  up  the  living  quarters  of  thorough  bred  Parisians  1 

Or  what  of  the  families  of  concierges  living — ten  souls 

— in  a  ready  furnished  room  six  feet  by  nine1?  What 
would  he  know  of  the  world  within  a  house, — each  floor 
a  country — each  suite  a  town,  as  unknown  to  the  next, 
as  if  one  were  in  Mexico,  and  the  other  in  Yucatan  ? 
What  knows  he  of  the  whole  world  of  restaurants 
scattered  up  and  down,  in  which  Prince  and  peasant 
find  their  dinner, — and  where  he  may  pay  two  sous  or  as 
many  Napoleons ; — and  the  cafes,  from  those  brilliant 
with  gold  and  mirrors  to  the  dingy  salons  of  St.  Antoine  1 


70  Fresh   Gleanings. 

What  knows  he  of  the  eccentricities  of  cabmen,  and  the 
dealers  in  wines  and  small  stores,  and  the  students' 
dinners,  and  the  garden  of  the  Luxembourg — of  the 
intricacies  of  the  Palais  Royal — or  Bal  Montesquieu  ! 

In  short,  he  knows  of  nothing  but  the  exteriors  of 
things ; — nothing  of  the  omnibus,  but  its  noise — of  the 
Boulevards,  but  their  crowds — of  the  shops,  but  their 
prices — of  the  Chatelet,  but  its  height — of  the  Latin 
quarter,  but  its  mud — or  of  Montfaucon,  but  its  smells. 

There  are  indeed,  many  travellers,  who  content  them- 
selves with  the  mere  shadows  of  things,  as  it  were — with 
seeing  this  palace  or  that  palace — this  assemblage  or  that ; 
who  compares  his  daily  observations  with  the  printed 
data  of  his  guide-book,  caring  for  nothing  beyond  the 
coincidence  of  the  two.  I  remember  being  in  company 
with  such  a  Vandal  for  a  time  in  the  south  of  Italy — a 
man  who  went  to  Virgil's  tomb,  out  by  the  huge  grotto 
of  Persilippo,  as  he  would  go  to  take  up  a  note  of  hand, 
— a  man  who  ticked  off,  day  by  day,  such  objects  of  visit 
as  Baie,  or  Herculanum, — Cape  Mysene,  and  the  Elysian 
Fields, — and  slept  a  Christian  sleep  after  it,  as  if  he  ha  J 
achieved  the  object  of  Travel !  I  never  want  the  con 
pany  of  such  another. 

Abjure  then,  I  would  say,  the  valet,  and  take  instead 
the  map,  the  dictionary,  the  grammar,  and  a  pocket 
history.  If  there  be  possessed  no  knowledge  of  the 
language,  there  might  be  safely  advised  further,  a  garret 
upon  the  sixth  floor,  looking  upon  a  small  court — late 
hours  (at  home),  and  close  study.     Without  a  speaking 


T  he    Vale  t    a  nd   the    Merchan  t.     71 

acquaintance  with  the  language,  one  is  obliged  to  give 
nimself  up  too  much  to  the  direction  of  others, — loses  the 
benefit  of  his  own  sagacity  and  observation,  and  exposes 
himself  (cxperto  crede)  to  almost  innumerable    vexations 

Fancy,  for  instance,  the  absurdity  of  a  man,  with  a 

minimum  of  bad  French,  getting  red  in  the  face,  and  dis- 
puting prices  with  a  Parisian  shopkeeper !  And  the 
shopkeeper  is  all  politcsse  ; — there  is  no  matter-of-fact 
disputing  air  about  him ;  he  catches  your  eye  the  very 
moment  you  enter ;  he  gives  you  a  word  of  welcome,  as  if 
.  you  were  the  dearest  friend  on  earth  ;  he  shows  you  the 
best  of  his  stock ;  he  is  never  ruffled ;  dispute  his  terms 
and  he  puts  on  his  blandest  smile  : —  Trop  chcr  ?  Bon 
Dicu  !  e'est  une  2?laisanterie,  Monsieur,  n'est  ce  pas  ?  I 
sthink  you  pay  forty  times  so  much  at  Londrcs.  Tenez 
voycz-vous,  ah  !  sacre  !  quelle  etoffe — la  meillcurc  fahrique 
de  la  France — parole  dlionneur,  Monsieur,  fy  perds — oui, 
fy  perds. 

But  if  it  be  good  philosophy  to  bear  meekly  with  the 
cheateries  of  the  shopmen — it  is  doubly  so  with  the  shop- 
girls. 

The  high-heeled  shoes,  and  high  head-gear,  that  turned 
the  soul  of  poor  Lawrence  Sterne  have,  indeed,  gone  by; 
but  the  Grisette  presides  over  gloves  and  silks  yet,  and 
whatever  she  may  do  with  the  heart-strings,  she  makes 
the  purse-strings  yield.  You  will  find  her  in  every  shop  of 
Paris — (except  those  of  the  exchange  brokers,  where  are  fat, 
middle-aged  ladies,  who  would  adorn  the  circles  of  Wall- 
street) — there  she  stands,  with  her  hair  laid  smooth  as 


72  Fresh    Gleanings. 

her  cheek,  over  her  forehead — in  the  prettiest  blue  muslin 
dress  you  can  possibly  imagine, — a  bit  of  narrow  white 
lace  running  round  the  neck,  and  each  little  hand  set  oft* 
with  the  same — and  a  very  witch  at  a  bargain. — He  who 
makes  the  shop-girl  of  Paris  bate  one  jot  of  price,  must 
needs  have  French  at  his  tongue's  end. 

There  may  be  two  at  a  time,  there  may  be  six,  she  is 
nothing  abashed ;  she  has  the  same  pleasant  smile — the 
same  gentle  courtesy  for  each,  and  her  eye  glances  like 
thought  from  one  to  the  other.  You  may  laugh, — she 
will  laugh  back;  you  may  chat, — she  will  chat  back; 
you  may  scold, — she  will  scold  back.  She  guesses  your 
wants : — there  they  are,  the  prettiest  gloves,  she  says,  in 
Paris.  You  can  not  utter  half  a  sentence,  but  she  under- 
stands the  whole ;  you  can  not  pronounce  so  badly,  but 
she  has  your  meaning  in  a  moment.  She  takes  down 
package  upon  package  ;  she  measures  your  hand — her 
light  fingers  running  over  yours,  —  Quelle  jolic  petite 
main  ! — She  assists  in  putting  a  pair  fairly  on : — and  how 
many  pair  does  Monsieur  wish  ? 

But  one! — ah,   Monsieur  is  surely  joking.     See 

what  pretty  colors, — and  she  gathers  a  cluster  in  her  fin- 
gers,— and  so  nice  a  fit, — and  she  takes  hold  of  the  glove 
upon  your  hand. 

Only  two,  ah,  it  is  indeed  too  few,  and  so  cheap. 

Only  fifteen  francs  for  the  six  pair, — which  is  so  little  for 
Monsieur, — and  she  rolls  them  in  a  paper,  looking  you  all 
the  time  fixedly  in  the  eye.  And  there  is  no  refusal ;  and 
you  slip  the  three  pieces  of  money  upon  the  counter,  and 


The   Government   of    Paris,  73 

she  drops  them  into  the  little  drawer,  and  thanks  you  in  a 
way  that  makes  you  think,  as  you  go  out,  that  you  have 
been  paying  for  the  Bmiles,  and  nothing  for  the  gloves. 
One  wears  out  a  great  many  gloves  at  Paris. 


The   Government   op   Paris. 

AS  one  lingers  day  after  day,  and  week  after  week, 
in  a  strange  city,  whose  memories  have  belonged 
to  his  education,  and  whose  memories  haunt  him  night 
after  night,  as  he  feels  that  he  is  sleeping  on  the  storied 
ground — as  he  lingers,  I  say,  these  pleasant  dreamings 
vanish.  It  is  hard  to  feel  them  slipping  away  day  by 
day ; — it  is  a  sad  experience  when  you  go  by  old  Historic 
scenes,  and  realize  first,  that  the  busy  world  around  you 
has  swallowed  up  your  sentiment,  so  that  it  ceases  to 
kindle,  and  your  eye  wanders  over  them,  as  the  veriest 
commonplaces  of  the  day. 

There  is  perhaps,  some  old,  narrow  street,  with  an- 
cient buildings  rising  high  up  on  either  side,  and  dismal 
alleys  branching  from  it — so  narrow,  the  sunlight  scarce 
comes  between;  and  the  street  has  a  name — a  famous 
name,  that  as  you  read  it  on  the  blackened  corner,  touches 
some  chord  of  memory,  like  an  electric  shock.  Straight- 
way the  round,  rough  paving  is  forgotten  ; — the  prying, 
earnest  faces  are  forgotten ; — all  sense  of  danger  is  flung 
aside,  and  the  tall  buildings  lean  over  to  your  earnest 

D 


7  i  Fresh  Gleanings. 

eye,  full  of  tales  of  blood  and  slaughter ;  you  can  not  telJ 
if  it  be  Froissart, — if  it  be  Monstrelet, — if  it  be  Jean  des 
Ursins,  who,  in  past  days  at  school,  or  at  home,  had  given 
you  the  key  to  the  scene ; — you  care  not — for  your  brain 
is  full  of  one  wild,  tumultuous  dream  of  memory.  Recol- 
lections may  be  vague  and  misty ;  but  there  is  something, — 
some  old  fashion  of  the  Soul,  that  keeps  them  stirring  ;  and 
they  change,  and  glitter,  and  fade — imagination  all  the 
while  wrestling  with  the  crowding  shapes,  to  give  them 
tangible  forms  and  fixedness.  Then  it  is  a  man  exults, 
for  the  presence  of  that  active  mind  that  is  in  him,  and 
"ejoices,  like  a  boy,  in  the  scenes  of  his  Travel. 

But,  as  I  said,  these  things  go  by.  The  old  street — the 
narrow  street,  comes  in  time  to  be  a  mere  dirty  alley ; — 
the  sharp  stones  hurt  your  feet,  and  you  look  curiously 
at  the  faces  in  the  windows.  Then  it  is,  too,  that  your 
thoughts  begin  to  be  busy  with  questionings  about  this 
modern  lifetime.  The  Column  that  had  awakened 
memories  of  battles,  with  stormy  sounds  of  drums  and 
fifes,  and  the  flaky  presence  of  plumes  waving  in  the 
fight,  begins  to  suggest  inquiries  about  its  size  and 
construction.  The  streets  that  were  the  mere  ground  of 
barricades  and  murder,  begin  to  be  streets  like  those  at 
home,  with  pavements  and  gas-lights.  The  house  you 
live  in,  begins  to  be  like  a  house  in  the  New  world — sub- 
ject to  the  same  rules  of  construction  and  decay,  and 
does  not  lose  its  idertity,  as  at  first,  in  the  sweet,  crowded 
dream-land  of  the  Old  City. 

You   begin  to  inquire  soberly   about  the  reasons  of 


Teie   Government    of    Paris.  75 

things : — how  it  is,  matters  go  on  so  quietly  with  a 
million  of  excitable  Frenchmen  1 — How  it  is  you  are 
safe  in  the  midst  of  them — as  safe  or  safer  than  at  home  1 
— In  short,  how  the  great  machinery  of  the  Paris  world 
is  working  so  noiselessly,  and  so  effectually  1 

You  see  a  stone  out  of  its  place  in  the  pavement,  and  a 
day  does  not  pass,  but  a  parcel  of  quiet  workers,  without 
any  visible  director,  with  pickaxes  and  shovels,  restore 
the  order.  You  see  a  man  run  down  by  one  of  the 
groaning  Omnibusses — and  appearing  on  the  instant,  you 
know  not  whence,  are  five  or  six  men  in  military  dress, 
who  bear  him  carefully  away  for  surgical  treatment; 
and  if  no  friends  claim  him,  in  two  hours  time,  he  is 
carried  to  one  of  those  great  Hospitals,  where  he  has  one 
of  those  beds,  and  a  share  of  that  attendance,  which  is 
daily  bestowed  upon  seventeen  thousand  sick  and  home- 
less souls.  You  hear  a  disturbance — a  slight  quarrel  in  a 
thoroughfare — a  few  on-lookers  collecting,  and  before  you 
have  noticed  his  approach,  a  man  in  military  cap  and 
with  light  sword,  is  among  them,  and  takes  one  of  the 
brawlers  by  the  arm — he  waves  his  hand  to  the  crowd, 
and  it  disperses.  How  is  it  that  one  feels  so  secure 
against  every  annoyance  in  the  city  he  has  thought  of,  as 
the  city  of  wickedness  1 

The  Municipal  authority  in  the  capital  is  the  Prefect 
of  the  Department  of  the  Seine,  corresponding  very 
nearly  with  the  office  of  Mayoralty  in  the  larger  of  the 
American  cities.  There  is  under  him,  a  Council  of 
Prefecture  made  up  into  different  administrations,  having 


76  Fresh   Gleanings. 

cognizance  of  various  public  affairs  : — as  for  instance,  of 
Roads  and  Public  Works,  of  Public  Instruction,  of 
Departmental  Taxes,  of  Post  Offices,  of  the  Poste  aux 
Chevaux.  Beside  this,  there  belongs  to  each  of  the 
twelve  Municipal  arrondissements,  corresponding  to  the 
wards  of  our  cities,  a  mairie,  (mayor)  and  two  deputy- 
mayors  ;  these  officers  sit  every  clay  from  two  to  four 
hours.  But  in  addition  to  all  this  machinery  of  civil 
administration,  and  what  comes  more  nearly  under  the 
eye  of  the  stranger,  is  the  Administration  of  the  Police. 

The  head  of  tl  is  department  is  the  Prefect  of  the 
Police,  holding  authority  directly  from  the  ministers  of 
the  crown.  It  is  he,  or  some  one  of  his  thousand  officials, 
that  permits  you  to  enter  the  city, — it  is  he  who  permits 
you  to  stay  in  it,  and  he  who  permits  you  to  leave  it. 

He  has  control  over  the  lodging-houses  of  the  city, — 
over  the  porters,  the  hackmen,  the  boatmen,  the  dray- 
men;— he  has  an  eye  to  the  markets,  that  weights  are 
just,  and  that  provisions  are  good  ; — he  fixes  the  price  of 
bread  ; — he  controls  bakers,  and  brokers,  and  baths  ; — he 
is  the  great  conservator  of  order,  and  it  is  he  who  makes 
the  stranger's  way  safe  in  any  part  of  Paris  by  night  01 
day.  If  you  drive  a  cabriolet,  he  tells  you  what  is  to  be 
paid ;  if  you  ride  to  the  Opera,  he  tells  you  the  streets 
you  are  to  pass  through ;  if  you  lose  your  way,  he  puts 
you  right ;  if  you  lose  your  money,  he  finds  it  for  you ; 
if  you  break  a  law,  he  slips  his  arm  in  yours,  and  walks 
with  you  down  to  the  Palais  de  Justice;  if  you  are 
trampled  down  in  the  street,  he  plucks  you  up,  and  gives 


The   Government   of  Paris.  77 

you  over  to  his  surgeon ;  if  you  tumble  into  the  Seine, 
he  kindly  fishes  you  out,  and  carefully  lays  your  body 
upon  one  of  the  slanting  tables  in  La  Morgue. 

This  same  omnipresent  officer  presides  every  other 
Friday  over  a  council  of  health,  held  by  the  first  physi- 
cians and  surgeons ;  he  gives  to  stranger-operatives  their 
certificate  of  right  to  work  at  their  respective  callings. 
He  has  under  him  forty-eight  commissaries — one  in  each 
of  the  quartiers,  into  which  the  twelve  arrondissements 
are  divided.  These  are  the  special  heads  of  their 
districts,  and  their  houses  may  be  distinguished  along  the 
Rue  St.  Martin  and  Rue  Richelieu  at  night,  by  a  crimson 
lantern  burning  at  their  doors. 

Nor  is  this  all;  under  the  Prefect,  and  under  the 
commissaries,  are  two  thousand  sergents-de-ville,  who 
wear  broad  military  chapeaux,  and  a  light  sword,  and 
may  be  seen  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  on  the  Boulevards, 
in  the  Garden,  and  the  dirty  alleys  of  the  Cite. 

Nor  yet  is  this  all ; — under  the  Prefect,  and  under  the 
commissaries,  and  holding  humbler  place  than  the  ser- 
gents-de-ville, are  the  Municipal  guard — three  thousand 
picked  men  on  foot,  and  seven  hundred  horse.  The  first 
are  stationed  in  all  the  theatres  at  night — they  patrol 
the  streets  —  they  rescue  the  injured  ;  and  wherever 
there  is  a  street  disturbance,  there  you  will  see  the 
black  horse-hair  plume  of  the  mounted  Municipal  guard. 

There  are  beside,  hundreds  of  secret  police  in  almost 
every  station  of  life ;  and  there  are  the  "  officers  of  the 
peace"  in  their  unsuspected  citizen's  dress.    No  portion  of 


78  Fkebh  Gleanings, 

the  capital  is  free  from  the  presence  of  some  officer  of  this 
mighty  Police.  Every  theatre  has  its  regular  quota — 
every  assembly  has  its  spy. 

You  are  going  to  the  opera  : — your  carriage  is  stop- 
ped two  squares  from  the  Opera-house,  by  a  horseman  in  a 
glittering  helmet,  with  black  plumes  waving  over  it ; — he 
directs  with  his  drawn  sword  the  way  the  coachman  is  to 
take ;  the  order  has  been  arranged  and  prescribed  at  the 
Prefecture  of  Police.  Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  theatre, 
three  or  more  of  the  mounted  guard  upon  their  black 
horses  direct  order  upon  driving  away ; — it  may  snow,  or 
it  may  rain — it  may  be  early  or  late — still  the  stern-look- 
ing horsemen  are  there — their  helmets  and  swords  glitter- 
ing in  the  gas-light.  You  alight  from  your  carnage,  and 
a  couple  of  the  sergents-de-ville  are  loitering  carelessly 
upon  the  steps  ; — they  run  their  eyes  half-inquiringly  over 
you,  as  you  enter.  Each  side  the  little  ticket-box  is  sta- 
tioned a  soldier  with  musket, — two  of  the  Municipal 
guard.  You  enter  a  passage  sentinelled  by  another ;  and 
within,  are  three  or  four  loitering  at  the  doorways. 

Perhaps  there  is  a  slight  disturbance  ;  some  brawler  is 
in  the  house ;  in  that  event,  the  soldier  at  the  door  disap- 
pears a  moment ; — he  comes  again  with  four  or  five  of  his 
comrades  ; — there  is  no  need  of  excuses  or  promises  now ; 
— the  brawler  goes  out  over  benches  and  boxes.  He  is 
handed  over  to  the  sergent-de-ville.  The  sergent-de- 
ville  calls  a  carriage,  and  the  brawler  rides  to  the  Palais 
de  Justice. 

Perhaps  the  disturbance  is  more  general.     The  soldiers 


The   Government   of   Paris.  79 

try  to  arrest  it ;  they  press  some  down,  they  motion  the 
others :  but  perhaps  half  the  company  are  hissing  and 
shouting  so  that  the  play  can  not  go  on.  In  this  event — 
and  it  occurred  during  my  last  visit  to  Paris, — a  plain- 
looking  gentleman,  dressed  simply  in  black,  with  a  bit  of 
ribbon  in  one  button-hole,  leans  over  from  one  of  the 
boxes,  and  tells  the  audience,  in  a  quiet  way,  —  if  the 
noise  does  not  cease,  he  shall  order  the  theatre  to  be 
cleared. 

There  is  no  use  in  expostulation — still  less  in  resist- 
ance;— for  the  man  in  black,  whom  nobody  knew  till  now, 
is  a  commissary  of  police — and  in  twenty  minutes  could 
order  a  thousand  men  upon  the  spot.  The  house  was 
quiet  in  a  moment,  and  the  play  went  on. 

For  a  rogue — merely  morally  speaking,  there  is  no  safer 
place  than  Paris.  He  may  offend  against  every  law  of 
God  and  man,  so  it  be  not  written  in  the  books  of  the 
Prefect  de  Police, — and  he  is  secure,  and  he  may  hold  his 
head  with  princes,  and  take  the  cushioned  stalls  at  Notre- 
Dame,  and  dine  at  the  Cafe  de  Pans,  and  rent  the  first 
loge  at  the  Opera.  But  let  him  offend  in  the  least 
the  statutes,  and  there  is  no  corner  from  Notre-Dame,  to 
Mont  Martre  that  can  hold  him.  He  may  assume  any 
disguise,  and  change  it  as  he  will — those  men  in  the 
cocked  hats,  and  with  the  straight  swords,  and  worse 
still — those  men  in  plain  suits,  whom  nobody  knows,  will 
have  their  eyes  and  their  hands  upon  him. 

It  is  no  use — the  going  backward,  or  forward,  or  talk- 
ing about  rank,  or  money,  or  position ; — he  may  as  well 


SO  Feesh   Gleanings. 

march  at  once  quietly  down  to  the  old  Palais  de  Justice — 
walk  straight  into  the  court — take  off  his  hat  to  the  Com- 
missariot,  and  ask  politely  for  a  room  on  the  first  floor, 
a  bottle  of  old  Macon,  and  a  few  pipes. 

There  is  something  in  the  constant  surveillance  of  such 
a  police,  not  altogether  reconcilable  with  an  American's 
idea  of  freedom ;  yet  at  the  same  time  is  there  a  secret 
and  indefinable  charm,  in  feeling  the  presence  and  secu- 
rity of  order, — order  unfailing  and  almost  perfect.  It 
makes  up,  indeed,  a  great  part  of  the  luxury  of  Paris  life, 
— this  quietude  amid  all  the  gayety.  Nor  is  it  wholly  the 
false  serenity,  which  hangs  like  a  summer  atmosphere 
over  the  scenes  of  Boccacio's  story ; — it  is  guarantied  by 
arms,  and  the  nicety  of  complete  military  organization. 
It  gives  a  home  feeling  in  the  gayest,  and  so  to  speak, 
most  Cosmopolitan  city  of  the  world  ; — and  when  I  came 
back  toward  it,  from  the  great  Eastern  cities — there  was  a 
yearning  at  my  heart,  as  if  it  was  half  a  home ;  and  I 
welcomed  the  broad  chapeaux  of  the  Sergents-de-ville, 
with  a  little  of  the  same  feeling,  with  which  I  welcomed, 
at  a  later  day, — the  high  gateway,  the  wide-branching 
elms,  the  gray  porch — covered  with  its  green,  flowering 
creeper — of  my  country  home. 


Les    Ma  iso  Na    Garni  ks.  81 


Les    Maisons    Garnieh. 

"T^TTHAT  visions  of  dimity  curtains,  and  waxed 
floors,  and  winding  escaliers,  and  dark  courts, 
and  little  conciergeries,  and  fat  women  with  huge  bunch- 
es of  keys  at  their  girdles,  come  up  to  my  mind's  eye,  in 
recalling  a  day's  search  through  the  furnished  houses  of 
Paris  !  They  are  the  homes  of  the  native,  and  the  homes 
of  the  stranger. — Not  a  quarter — not  a  street  is  without 
them.  They  are  adapted  to  princes,  and  to  the  poorest ; 
— from  the  first  floor  in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  to  the  fourth  in 
the  Rue  des  Mauvais  Garcons.  The  order  of  the  city  at- 
taches also  to  them,  and  you  may  find  in  them  the  retire- 
ment of  a  home,  in  the  midst  of  the  bustle  of  a  city. 

You  may,  if  it  please  you,  know  no  one  but  your  con- 
cierge, to  whom  you  pay  your  bill,  and  who  cleans  your 
room.     At  meal  times  you  go  where  you  will. 

The  very  search  for  such  quarters  as  may  please  your 
fancy,  offers  a  pleasant  kaleidoscopic  view  of  Paris  life ; 
— here  is  a  busy  valet-de-chambre,  with  a  white  apron,  in 
the  larger  houses,  who  takes  six  steps  at  a  jump,  and  in- 
sists upon  the  ban  local ; — there,  a  prim  little  daughter  of 
the  concierge,  trips  a  long  way  before  you,  and  insists 
upon  showing  you  every  vacant  room  in  the  house ;  and 
laughs  at  your  bad  French  in  a  way  that  makes  you  talk 
infinitely  worse — and  throws  open  the  window,  and  pulls 


82  Fresh   Gleanings. 

back  the  muslin  curtains — descanting  all  the  while  in  the 
prettiest  possible  language  upon  the  prospect.  Then, 
again — obstinate  old  women  with  spectacles,  who  put  down 
their  knitting  work,  and  drop  tremendous  courtesies — who 
would  be  charmed  to  have  Monsieur  for  a  lodger — who 
give  the  best  of  linen  ;  and  who — say  what  you  will — in- 
sist upon  understanding  you  to  accept  their  terms  uncon- 
ditionally; and  when  you  would  undeceive  them,  over- 
whelm you  with  explications,  that  only  make  matters 
worse,  and  you  are  fain  to  make  all  sorts  of  excuses  to  be 
fairly  rid  of  them.  What  array  of  broken  promises  and 
prices,  of  subterfuges  and  solicitations,  throng  over  the 
memorial  of  a  single  day's  search  for  lodgings ! 

And  what  a  happy  rest  from  all,  on  my  first  visit, 

in  the  little,  wax-floored,  white-curtained  chamber,  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  maison  particuliere  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Cathedral  of  St.  Roch  ! 

There  was  a  quiet  old  lady  in  the  conciergerie,  who 
made  the  bed,  and  brought  up  the  water,  and  kindled  the 
fire.  And  the  corset-maker  next  door  had  all  sorts  of  vis- 
itors ;  and  in  the  mourning  shop  opposite,  every  day  the 
shop-girls  new  arranged  the  ?aces,  and  caps,  and  cross- 
barred  muslins,  so  that  I  came  lo  be,  in  less  than  a  month, 
a  connoisseur  of  Modes.  Many  a  quiet  afternoon,  too, 
have  I  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  watched  the  goers- 
in  at  the  Cathedral — up  the  same  steps  where  was  gath- 
ered, in  the  unfortunate  days  of  France,  the  ruthless  lab- 
ble,  to  see  poor  Marie  Antoinette  go  by  to  execution; 
or  looking  the  other  way,  I  could  see  the  gay  throngs  go 


L  e  s   Maisoks    G  a  r  n  i  e  s.  83 

trooping  through  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries ;  and  over, 
at  night,  from  high  over  the  weather-stained,  bullet-scar- 
red front  of  the  church,  I  used  to  hear  the  loud,  full- 
sounding  bells  chiming  over  the  silent  city.  And  their 
sounds  so  near,  and  so  clear,  crowded  strange  dreams 
into  my  mind,  and  pleasant  dreams,  because  they  were 
wild  and  vivid,  and  I  came  to  love  the  sounds  of  the  bells, 
as  a  familiar  lullaby. 

fra  le  piu  care 

Gioje  del  mondo,  e  '1  suone  delle  campane. 

The  old  Italian  had  listened  to  the  sweet  Florentine 
bells,  and  I — thanks  to  this  wandering  American  spirit— r 
have  dreamed  under  those  of  San  Giovapni,  and  of  San 
Roch. 

There  attach  other  recollections  to  other  neighborhoods 
in  which  I  have  been  a  sojourner.     Who  could  forget  the 

happy  Madame  C ,  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St.  Augustin, 

who  serves  her  lodgers  with  coffee,  up  six  pair  of  stairs, — 
sometimes  at  the  hands  of  the  little  mischievous  Pierre, 
in  the  blue  smock-frock,  and  sometimes  at  the  hands  of 
the  stumpy  little  girl  who  called  her — ma  tante  1 

There  was,  beside,  the  happy-looking  shoemaker,  in 
the  dark  corner  of  one  of  the  many  hotels  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Harpe — and  the  little  iron  wicket  with  its  tinkling  bell, — 
and  the  dim  corridor — and  in  the  room  at  the  end,  sitting 
before  the  meagre  grate,  the  ever-cheerful  Abbe  G . 

And  it  is  in  that  old,  quaint,  dim  quarter  of  the  Sor- 
bonne,  where  are  narrow  alleys  and  dirty,  and  student 


84  Fresh    Gleanings. 

faces,  and  bent-over  old  men,  and  doubtful  Restaurants,  that 
one  may  learn  fullest,  the  character  of  the  furnished  houses 
of  the  city.  Once  dwell  in  them  for  ever  so  little  time,  and 
you — if  you  have  any  thing  like  this  madcap,  truant  fancy 
of  mine — you  are  borne  straight  back  to  a  crowded  dream- 
land,— you  tremble  at  the  slam  of  your  own  door  at  night. 

Oh,  Philip  de  Comines — your  secret  chronicles  of 

kings  are  barren  to  the  grouping  fancies  of  a  New-world 
dreamer,  in  some  old  maison  garnie  beyond  the  Seine  ! 

What  a  history  of  mysteries  might  be  made  out  of  a 
single  one  in  the  old  quarters  of  Paris !  What  would  I 
not  give  for  the  revelations  of  an  octogenarian  concierge 
in  some  of  the  hotels  of  the  Rue  de  Seine,  or  of  the  An- 
cient Comedy ! 

Passing  along  the  narrow  sideways  of  either  of  these 
streets,  or  of  the  lesser  ones  which  branch  from  them  in 
every  direction,  and  you  will  see,  here  and  there,  at  each 
hand,  heavy  double  doors  opening  upon  a  stone-paved, 
dismal,  little  court.  In  the  farther  corner  is  a  dark,  ill- 
lighted  box,  over  the  window  of  which,  is  written  Concierge- 
tie.  An  old  man  and  his  wife  are  sitting  upon  stools  within ; 
perhaps  they  are  stitching  busily  upon  old  clothes;  or  if 
it  be  four  o'clock,  they  have  their  dinner — a  savory  mess, 
in  one  bowl  between  them.  A  bed,  dusty  and  dirty,  fills 
up  the  farther  side  of  the  room ; — a  long  line  of  keys 
hang  under  the  window; — two  or  three  old,  torn  books, 
and  a  half  a  page  of  a  National,  with  a  programme  of 
the  Opera  Comique  lie  on  the  low  table :  a  pen  and  ink, — a 
dog-leaved  note-book, — a  stone  pitcher,  and  two  tumblers 


L  e  s   M  a  i  a  o  n  s    Garnies,  85 

— a  gray  cat  squatted  in  the  only  spare  chair, — a  colored 
lithograph  of  the  Due  d'Orleans,  and  a  pewter  crucifix  in 
the  corner,  make  up  all  the  furnishings  of  the  dismal  little 
home  of  the  concierge  and  his  wife.  If  you  are  a  lodger,  the 
man  takes,  mechanically,  your  key  from  its  nail,  and  gives  it 
you,  with  a  good-day. — If  a  stranger  in  search  of  a  home, 
the  old  lady  gathers  up  five  or  six  of  the  keys,  and  ushers 
you  up  dim  stairways,  and  along  ill-lighted  corridors  to 
the  vacant  rooms.  The  crooked  and  abrupt  turns  con- 
found one ;  the  blind  stair-cases,  the  concealed  doors,  the 
windows  looking — nowhere,  the  voluble  strange-talking 
tongue  of  the  old  lady,  and  the  jingling  of  her  keys  in  the 
door-locks,  all  raise  curiosity  to  the  tip-toe. 

Nor  will  your  curiosity  be  satisfied,  though  you  stop 
a  month,  or  a  year.  The  stair-cases  are  just  as  dim,  and 
look  as  full  of  old  men's  tales  ; — the  corridors  are  just  as 
sombre, — just  as  crooked ; — your  neighbor's  door  opens  and 
shuts  in  just  such  a  silent  way ; — the  faces  you  meet  upon 
the  stairs,  look  just  as  strange  and  distant ; — the  man  in 
the  chamber  above  you  paces  about  in  the  same  mysterious 
manner  as  when  first  you  took  the  key  at  the  Concierge- 
rie,  and  left  your  card  for  the  police.  You  may  sometimes 
catch  a  glimpse,  by  a  half-opened  door  in  the  entresol 
of  waxed  floors,  and  glass  ornaments  of  the  mantel,  and 
possibly  of  the  maid  scrubbing  the  table, — you  never  see 
more  of  its  occupants.  Sometimes  you  may  see  your 
neighbor — a  tall  man  in  a  long  cloak,  opening  his  door — 
it  is  all  you  know  of  him.  And  perhaps,  the  concierge 
knows  no  more— except  a  name. 


86  F  it  i:  s  ii    G  l  r  a  n  i  no  s. 

Sometimes  you  meet  the  garcon  of  a  cook  or  baker  in 
the  court,  with  a  cover  in  his  hand  that  smells  of  dinner : 
he  disappears  down  one  of  the  corridors  —  you  never 
know  where.  Sometimes  you  meet  a  fair-faced  girl,  and 
she  goes  tripping  up  the  slanting  and  crooked  stairway 
a  long  way  before  you — and  as  you  pass,  the  doors  are  all 
shut — not  a  lock  stirs — not  even  her  light  foot-fall  is  to  be 
heard.  Sometimes,  in  the  first  blush  of  the  morning,  you 
may  hear  steps  passing  your  door, — perhaps  whispers, — 
you  dress  in  haste  to  have  a  peep  through  the  key-hole, — 
the  gray  corridor  is  empty,  and  still  as  death ;  you  look 
out  the  window — if  by  chance,  it  looks  upon  the  court, — 
nothing  is  stirring.  You  go  down  the  stairs  at  your 
breakfast  time,  in  half  expectation  that  your  concierge's 
look  will  be  full  of  revelations; — he  bids  you  good-morning 
with  the  same  nonchalance  as  on  the  first  day  you  saw 
him,  and  takes  your  key  and  hangs  it  on  its  nail; — and  you 
stroll  down  the  court,  biting  your  lip.  Sometimes,  late  at 
night,  when  you  have  been  two  hours  asleep,  you  hear  a 
heavy  tramp  come  up  the  stairway,  and  a  heavy  foot  go 
shaking  the  corridor  ; — tramp — tramp,  it  mounts  the  stairs 
at  the  end, — tramp — tramp,  along  the  corridor  above  : 
who  it  is,  where  it  goes,  you  know  as  little  when  you 
come  away,  as  when  you  enter  a  Hotel  Garni. 

The  month  or  the  year  ended,  you  pay  your  bill, — no- 
body is  looking  to  see  you  off, — nobody  knows  you  are 
going — nobody  knows  you  had  come  ;  the  concierge  bids 
you  bon-jour — hangs  your  key  on  its  peg,  and  all  goes  on 
as  strangely,  as  silently,  as  mysteriously  as  before.     Come 


Les    Maisons    Gaenies.  87 

again  in  a  year — come  in  two  years — come  in  five  years, 
and  ten  to  one  the  same  concierge  is  eating  his  dinner  in 

the  corner  yet. The  old  lady  takes  four  or  five  keys 

and  shows  you  the  vacant  rooms ; — the  same  leaning 
stairways — the  same  crooked  corridors — the  same  steps 
in  the  morning  —  the  same  tramp  at  night  —  the  same 
strange  mystery  confounds  you  as  before. 

The  rooms  I  held  on  one  of  my  visits  to  Paris,  in 
the  Rue  St.  Thomas  du  Louvre,  though  not  so  much 
in  the  strange,  old  quarter,  as  those  of  which  I  have 
been  speaking,  yet  had  a  story-telling  air  of  their  own. 
The  house  was  old,  very  old  —  so  that  the  stair-cases 
were  all  upon  a  slant ;  and  the  heavy,  black  stones  of 
which  they  were  formed,  were  in  some  places,  sprung 
an  inch  or  two  from  the  wall,  and  disclosed  yawning 
gaps.  And  the  courts  about  the  old  house  were  dropped 
here  and  there,  never,  that  I  could  discover,  with  any 
order;  —  and  the  stairways  led  ofF  so  blindly  in  some 
directions,  that  I  never  had  the  courage  to  follow  them  to 
an  end. 

My  rooms  were  near  the  top  of  the  house ;  I  mounted 
five  pair  of  stairs — went  through  a  short  corridor  with 
a  painted  and  waxed  brick  floor,  where  I  entered  the 
first  of  my  suite.  This  was  an  anteroom,  opening  upon 
a  narrow  court,  which  had  very  narrow  windows  peep- 
ing into  it,  up  and  down.  Out  of  the  anteroom,  opened 
a  kitchen  and  pantry  with  all  the  cooking  paraphernalia 
attached  —  these  rooms  looked  into  another  court,  still 
smaller    and    more   dismal   than   the    other.     From   the 


83  F  u  e  s  ii    Gleanings. 

kitchen  opened  a  bedroom,  in  which  there  was  no  win- 
dow at  all — simply  a  low,  French  bedstead,  and  mattrass. 
Beside  the  bedroom,  ran  a  corridor  from  the  anteroom, 
which  conducted  to  my  little  parlor,  with  still  another 
bedroom,  and  another  court  adjoining.  The  window  of 
the  parlor  commanded  a  look  over  an  angle  of  the 
Place  du  Carrousel,  and  the  noise  that  came  up  from 
its  pavement,  was  all  that  met  my  ear ; — since  I  was  so 
far  from  the  stair-case  and  corridor,  that  the  steps  of 
my  fellow-lodgers  were  lost  in  coming  through  the  long 
range  of  rooms,  over  which  I  held  control.  There  were, 
however,  plenty  of  lodgers ;  —  for  I  had  met  strange- 
looking  people  on  the  stairs,  and  seen  them  fingering 
the   door-locks,  and  sometimes   heard    steps  above  me, 

toward   midnight.      Once  or  twice,  too,  from  the  win- 

1  J 
dow  of  the  wash-room,  I  had  seen  a  grizzly  face  peep- 
ing out  of  a  narrow  slit,  far  above,  in  the  court — but  whose 
it  was  I  never  knew. 

There  is  something  that  is  the  very  reverse  of  cheer- 
fulness about  empty  rooms,  and  above  all, — an  empty 
kitchen ; — and  when  I  heard,  as  I  sometimes  did,  the  most 
trifling  noise  about  the  old,  ricketty  grate  at  night,  I 
have  waked  up  with  a  start,  and  felt, — shamed  as  I  am 
to  confess  it, — something  very  like  fear. 

My  concierge  was  a  brisk,  little  man,  more  communi- 
cative than  most  of  his  class, — who  served  as  facteur  to  the 
neighborhood,  and  who  came  up  at  nine  every  morning 
to  make  my  bed,  and  to  wax  my  floors.  I  sometimes  led 
him   into    conversation    upon    former    occupants   of  the 


Stoiiy   cp    Le   Merle.  80 

house ;  but  all  I  could  gain  from  him,  only  afforded 
strange,  wild  glimpses  of  the  mysteriously  moving  and 
changing  hotel  life.  Some  things,  however,  that  lie  told 
me  of  a  lodger,  two  or  three  years  before,  in  the  very 
rooms  I  occupied,  impressed  me  strongly  at  the  time ; 
and  as  they  seem  to  offer  good  illustration  of  what  I  have 
said  about  the  maison  garnie,  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
setting  them  down  here,  at  the  risk  of  being  thought  too 
much  of  a  Romancer. 


Story   of    Le   Merle. 

/^VNE  September  morning,  of  183-, — said  he, — and  a 
^~^  Sergent-de-ville  tapped  at  the  little  door  of  the 
Conciergerie,  and  handed  a  slip  of  paper  to  my  wife,  ask- 
ing, at  the  same  time,  if  the  persons  whose  names  were 
written  upon  it,  were  lodgers  in  the  house.  My  wife  put 
on  her  spectacles,  and  read  these  names — Jean  et  Lucie 
Le  Merle.  There  were  no  such  persons  among  the 
lodgers. 

The  Sergent-de-ville  asked  if  there  had  been  surli 
within  the  month  past1?  My  wife  ran  her  eye  over  the 
little  book  she  keeps  for  names — there  were  none  like 
those  upon  the  slip  of  paper  which  the  officer  had  handed 
her.  He  seemed  disappointed : — he  asked  her  the 
number  of  the  house,  and  the  name  of  the  owner;  ar.d 
pulling    a    small   tablet   from    his    pocket,    compared,    ] 


00  F  R  K  Sll      G  L  E  A  X  I  N  C  S. 

suppose,  what  he  had  written,  with  the  answers  my  wife 

had  given  him. He  still  seemed  dissatisfied,  and  wanted 

to  see  my  wife's  book  of  names. 

The  Sergent-de-ville  did  not  succeed  in  his  search : 
— he  ordered  that  any  persons  with  such  names  coming 
within  the  month,  should  be  immediately  reported  to  the 
Prefect  of  the  Police, — enjoined  secrecy  for  the  time,  and 
went  away,  leaving  the  slip  of  paper,  and  a  piece  of  five 
francs  at  the  Conciergerie.  The  last  day  of  the  month 
my  wife  and  I  dined  upon  a  Fricandeau  dc  veau,  au 
sauce  tomate, — omelette  au  confiture, — a  Strasburg  pie, 
and  drank  the  health  of  the  Sergent-de-ville,  with  a 
bottle  of  Chablis  wine.  No  lodgers  of  the  names  on  the 
paper  had  come. 

A  year  after,  in  the  month  of  September,  when  we 
had  quite  forgotten  the  names, — the  five  francs,  and  the 
dinner, — and  there  came  up  to  me  in  the  court  of  the 
Messageries  Generales,  a  pale,  thin  man,  leading  a  little 
girl  of  ten  years,  and  asked  me  to  take  his  portmanteau 
to  number  26  Rue  St.  Thomas  du  Louvre. 

—  Trcs  Tolontiers,  Monsieur, — said  I, — since  it  is  my 
home. 

My  wife  showed  him  the  very  rooms  Monsieur  occu- 
pies at  present.  He  glanced  over  the  little  courts  upon 
which  the  windows  look,  seemed  satisfied  with  ap- 
pearances, and  took  the  chambers.  He  handed  my 
wife  a  card,  on  which  was  wiitten — Jean  Le  Merle  et 
file.       ^ 

As  I  said,  we  had  quite  forgotten  the  Sergent-de-ville, 


8  T  O  H  Y     0  F     L  E     M  E  R  I.  E.  91 

and  the  incident  of  the  last  September.  Still  it  occurred 
to  us,  that  there  was  something  about  the  name,  which 
the  new  lodger  had  given,  not  unfamiliar.  So  one  even- 
ing, we  rummaged  the  book,  to  see  if  we  had  had  no 
such  lodger  before.  We  could  find  none  like  it ;  but  just 
*as  we  were  shutting  the  book,  and  were  wondering  what 
made  the  name  so  familiar,  a  slip  of  paper  fell  out  from 
between  the  leaves,  on  which  was  written  Jean  et  Lticie 

Le  Merle. On  the  instant,  we  remembered  all  about 

the  Sergent-de-ville  and  the  five  francs,  and  the  dinner. 

Here  was  one  of  the  persons  whom  we  were  to  have 
reported ; — but  the  time  had  gone  by,  a  full  twelvemonth. 
Besides,  it  seemed  to  us  that  the  poor  man  had  suffered 
enough  of  disquietude  already ;  so  we  determined  to  send 
in  the  name  as  he  had  written  it,  with  those  of  the  other 
lodgers, — as  is  our  usual  way,  without  any  mention  of  the 
occurrence  of  the  year  before.  The  police,  we  thought, 
could  not  expect  that  five  francs  should  make  us,  who  see 
so  many  names,  remember  a  single  one,  from  one  year's 
end  to  the  other.  Nor  did  we  dare  say  any  thing  about 
the  slip  of  paper  to  our  new  lodger ;  in  fact,  we  burnt  it 
the  same  evening,  and  kept  the  matter  wholly  between 
ourselves. 

The  little  girl  who  came  with  the  new  lodger  was  beau- 
tiful. She  had  long,  black,  glossy  hair,  that  hung  in  curls 
over  her  neck,  and  an  eye  jet  black,  but  with  a  strange 
look  of  sadness  in  it,  for  one  so  young.  We  saw  little  of 
her,  however.  Of  a  morning,  they  would  go  out  togeth- 
er,— the  little  girl  clasping  firmly  the  hand  of  the  pale 


92  Fresh    Gleanings. 

gentleman,  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  lose  it  one  moment, 
and  they  would  turn  down  across  the  crowded  Plctce  du 
Palais  Royal, — and  for  two  hours  we  would  see  no  more 
of  them.  By  and  by  they  would  saunter  back, — the  gentle- 
man would  take  his  key,  without  passing  a  word  with  my 
wife,  and  no  more  would  be  seen  of  them,  until  two  or 
three  hours  after  noon.  In  passing  by  the  barriers  of  the 
Tuileries  at  this  hour,  I  have  sometimes  seen  them  sit- 
ting on  a  stone  bench  in  the  garden,  or  strolling  under 
the  trees, — av  "  sometimes,  though  very  rarely,  I  used  to 
see  the  little  girl  playing  with  the  other  children  about 
the  green  boxes  of  the  orange-trees.  She  was  always 
dressed  richly  and  prettily ;  and  my  wife  used  to  wonder 
if  she  could  arrange  her  curls  and  her  little  gipsy  bonnet 
eo  well,  or  if  Monsieur  himself  arranged  them  for  her. 
Often  did  the  lodgers  in  the  entresol, — an  old  man  and  his 
wife,  who  had  lived  in  the  same  room  for  seven  years, — 
ask  who  was  the  little  black  haired  girl  in  the  gipsy  bon- 
net, that  went  tripping  every  day  over  the  Place  du 
Carrousel,  clinging  so  firmly  to  the  hand  of  the  new 
lodger ] 

No  one  ever  asked  after  Monsieur  Le  Merle ; — no  let- 
ters ever  came  for  Monsieur  Le  Merle.  Once  only,  a 
package  was  left  by  a  facteur,  addressed  simply  "  Le 
Merle,  26  St.  Thomas  du  Louvre."  The  next  morning, 
I  saw  a  casket  on  the  table,  and  afterward,  on  a  day  when 
it  chanced  to  be  open,  I  saw  in  it  a  rich  pearl  necklace. 
On  Sundays,  and  on  days  of  fete,  the  little  girl  wore  it, 
and  it  was  rich  enough  for  a  Countess. 


Story    of    Le    Merle.  93 

Sometimes,  when  I  was  waxing  the  floors  in  the  corri- 
dor, I  heard  snatches  of  a  soft  song  from  these  rooms, 
and  it  seemed  to  me,  though  I  do  not  certainly  know, 
that  it  was  in  a  strange  language.  My  wife,  too,  has  said, 
that  the  talk  of  the  little  girl  had  a  strange  accent,  as  if, 
some  day,  she  had  spoken  in  another  tongue.  Her  eye,  too, 
was  larger,  and  fuller,  and  sadder,  than  are  the  eyes  of 
Parisian  girls,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  a  country  farther 
to  the  South.  A  few  books  were  always  lying  on  the 
table  of  Monsieur,  but  were  all  of  them  in  French ;  only 
once  I  saw  upon  the  bureau  a  beautiful  little  volume  with 
gold  clasps,  and  a  miniature  of  a  lady  in  the  cover, — 
and  it  was  written  in  a  language  that  I  did  not  know. 
And  once,  only  once  that  I  remember,  on  a  Sunday, 
when  they  went  out — Monsieur  said  to  N6tre-Dame — 
the  little  girl  carried  the  book  with  the  gold  clasps,  and 
wore  the  same  day  the  beautiful  pearl  necklace.  On 
some  days,  Monsieur  would  go  out  for  a  time  alone ; 
and  then  we  always  noticed  that  the  little  girl, — whether 
from  fear,  or  what  I  do  not  know, — took  the  key  out  of 
the  door  and  fastened  it  from  within. 

Meantime  we  heard  nothing  from  the  police  ;  every 
thing  went  on  quietly  ; — we  should  have  thought  no  more 
about  Monsieur  Le  Merle  than  any  other  of  our  lodgers, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  dark-haired  girl,  who  seemed  to 
have  no  other  friend  in  the  world. 

One  day  it  happened,  that  Monsieur  had  been  gone 
longer  than  his  usual  time,  and  my  wife  heard  a  gentle 
tap  at  the  window  of  the  Conciergerie.     It  was  the  little 


94  Fresh    Gleanings. 

girl  of  the  Attic ; — she  had  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  cowe 
alone  down  the  stairs ; — she  was  afraid,  she  said,  to  stay 
so  long  alone  in  the  great  chamber ; — she  wanted  to  go 
out  to  find  her  papa.  She  did  not  know  where  he  was 
gone,  but  she  was  sure  she  would  find  him.  My  wife 
persuaded  her  to  put  off  her  bonnet,  and  sit  with  her  in 
the  Conciergerie  ;  and  when  it  grew  late,  and  still  Mon- 
sieur Le  Merle  did  not  cume,  I  brought  her  some  dinner 
from  a  Restaurant,  but  she  would  scarce  eat  any  thing 
for  her  fear. 

At  length,  just  at  dusk,  and  while  Monsieur  Le  Merle 
was  still  away,  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  thu 
footman  tapped  at  the  window-pane,  and  asked  if  it  was 
26  St.  Thomas  du  Louvre  ? 

—  Oui,  Monsieur. 

—  Madame  wishes  to  see  Lucie  Le  Merle. 

—  It  is  I — said  the  little  girl : — till  then  we  had  not 
known  her  name.  My  wife  led  her  out  to  the  carriage. 
She  said  two  ladies  elegantly  dressed  were  seated  in  it. 
One  of  them  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  ear  of  Lucie. 
The  poor  child  looked  wonderingly  in  her  face  a  moment 
— shook  her  head,  and  turning  round  to  my  wife,  said — 
Qui  est  elle — Jc  ne  sais  pas — moi. 

The  lady  whispered  to  the  child  again  : — this  time  she 
touched  a  chord  in  the  little  girl's  heart.  A  tear  or  two 
dropped  from  her  young  eyes — Qui  etes  vous,  done,  Ma- 
dame, dites  moi,  je  vous  en  prie. 

The  lady  whispered  something  more  in  Lucie's  ear — 
what  it  was,  my  wife  could  not  hear.     Our  little  lodger 


Storv    or    Le   Merle.  95 

ran  up  stairs,  and  came  down  with  the  casket,  which  had 
stood  always  upon  the  table  under  the  mirror,  and  caught 
up  her  bonnet  from  the  Conciergerie,  and  presently  was  in 
the  carriage  with  the  ladies. 

—  Your  father  1 — said  my  wife,  doubtingly. 

—  Je  vais  le  voir — said  our  little  lodger,  and  the  car- 
riage drove  off,  under  the  arch  of  the  Louvre  toward  the 
Quay. 

My  wife  and  I  were  troubled :  we  sat  up  till  midnight 
hoping  to  see  Monsieur  and  the  child  again.  I  went  up 
to  lock  the  chamber, — on  this  table  was  lying  the  book 
with  the  gold  clasps ;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  look- 
ed at  it  by  the  light  of  the  candle,  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  face  painted  upon  it,  like  that  of  the  black- 
eyed  girl.  1  undid  the  clasps,  and  found  written  on  the 
first  leaf — Lucie a  sa  Jille,  Lticie. 

The  next  morning  appeared  Monsieur  Le  Merle.  His 
face  was  haggard,  as  if  he  had  not  slept.  His  first  inqui- 
ries were  for  Lucie ;  and  when  we  had  told  to  him  all 
that  had  happened  the  day  before,  he  was  made  frantic. 
That  very  afternoon,  he  made  me  go  with  him,  and 
stop  by  him,  upon  a  seat  up  the  Champs  Elysees,  to 
see  if  by  chance,  I  could  detect  the  carnage,  or  the 
ladies  who  had  taken  his  treasure  from  him.  We 
stopped  until  it  was  dark,  but  could  see  nothing  of 
either. 

The  next  morning  a  note  was  dropped  through  the 
window — by  whom,  my  wife  did  not  see,  addressed  simply 
Le  Merle,  and  I  remembered  it  was  in  the  same  hand, 


96  Fresh   Gleanings. 

— at  least  so  it  seemed  to  me, — with  the  line  on  the  first 
leaf  of  the  book  with  the  gold  clasps. 

Our  lodger  seemed  startled  when  he  read  the  note, — 
he  paid  us  what  was  due  for  the  rooms,  and  I  took  his 
portmanteau  in  the  afternoon,  and  put  it  upon  a  coach  in 
the  Place  du  Palais  Royal.  He  bade  me  good-day,  slip- 
ped a  piece  of  five  francs  in  my  hand,  and  I  shut  the 
ioor  of  the  Jlacre. 

That  very  evening,  at  a  little  past  ten,  as  my  wife  and 
I  were  enjoying  a  small  cup  of  coffee,  which  we  had 
ordered  in  from  the  Cafe  du  Danemarck,  there  was  a 
slight  tap  at  our  window.  It  was  a  Sergent-de-ville.  He 
handed  us  a  slip  of  paper,  and  asked  if  the  persons 
whose  names  were  upon  it,  were  lodgers  at  the  house. 
My  wife  sat  by  the  candle.  She  put  on  her  spectacles 
and  read — Jean  he  Merle  etfillc. 

Odd  things  come  in  our  way  every  day — what  with 
changes  of  lodgers  and  bad  characters — but  this  was 
very  odd.  We  told  the  Sergent  all  we  knew  of  our 
lodgers  on  this  floor,  and  he  took  me  with  him  to 
the  Place  du  Palais  Royal.  We  inquired  of  every 
cabman  upon  the  stand,  but  not  one  could  tell  us 
any  thing  of  Monsieur  Le  Merle.  One  only  had  seen 
me  close  the  door  of  the  coach;  but  it  was  not  now 
\ipon  the  stand,  nor  did  he  know  the  number.  The 
Sergent-de-ville  asked  particularly  of  the  note  of  the 
morning,  but  I  could  tell  him  nothing :  —  he  left 
me. 

About  a  month  after,  the  Officer  called  at  our  door, 


Story    of    Le   Merle.  97 

and  asked  mo  to  go  with  him  over  the  Pont  Neuf. 
On  the  way,  he  told  me  that  a  body  had  been  found 
that  morning  in  the  Seine,  and  in  the  coat  pocket 
was  found  a  note,  crumpled  and  blurred,  but  they 
fancied  they  could  make  out  the  name  —  Le  Merle. 
He  led  me  straight  to  the  Morgue.  Three  bodies 
were  lying  upon  the  tables,  and  a  dozen  or  two 
of  people  were  looking  through  the  grating.  The 
Sergent-de-ville  pointed  to  me  a  body  in  the  corner; 
— it  must  have  been  many  days  in  the  water.  It 
was  bloated  to  near  twice  its  natural  size,  and  the  skin 
was  of  a  dirty  green  color.  Over  the  head  of  the 
body,  against  the  wall,  hung  the  simple  dress  of  a 
gentleman — the  dress  that  had  been  found  on  him.  I 
could  judge  of  nothing  by  the  appearance  of  the  body 
— it  was   a  dreadful  sight  to  look  at. 

The  Sergent-de-ville  asked  the  officer  to  pass  the 
coat  through  the  grating; — as  he  did  so,  and  I  took 
hold  of  it,  I  felt  something  hard  in  the  breast  pocket, 
and  putting  my  hand  in,  pulled  out  a  small  book  with 
gold  clasps.  There  had  been  a  little  miniature  set  in 
the  binding,  but  the  water  had  destroyed  it.     I  opened 

the   clasps,  and   found    on  the   first  leaf — Lucie a  sa 

fillc,  Lucie. 

I  was  then  sure  it  was  the  book  I  had  seen  upon  this 
table.  I  feared  that  it  was  truly  the  body  of  poor  Le 
Merle,  and  told  the  Sergent-de-ville  what  I  had  known 
of  the  book.  I  ventured  to  ask  him  about  Le  Merle ; — 
Mon  Dieu  !  these  officers  of  the  Police  have  a  short  way 

E 


OS  Fresh    Gleanings 

with    them,    Monsieur ! — he   gave    me    a   piece    of  five 
francs,  and  said  it  was  all  he  wanted  of  me. 

I  felt  a  little  sad  when  I  got  home  about  poor  Le 
Merle — so  did  my  wife.  So  at  five  o'clock,  we  spent  the 
money  of  the  Sergent  for  a  good  dinner  of  baeuf  braise 
aux  pommes — two  slices  of  melon,  and  a  bottle  of  old 
Macon — c'est  bon,  Monsieur,  ce  vieux  Macon — c'e&t  trcs 
ban. 

—  Yes,  said  I, — but  did  you  never  hear  again  of  the 
little  Lucie1? 

* —  Jamais,  Monsieur,  jamais.  My  wife  thought  she  saw 
her  two  years  after,  in  a  carriage,  upon  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde;  she,  said  that  she  had  grown  more  beautiful, 
but  looked  more  sad.  She  thought  she  could  not  have 
mistaken  her  large,  full  eye,  and  said  she  saw  on  her 
neck,  the  same  brilliant  chain  of  pearls  that  used  to  lie 
in  the  casket. 

—  I  should  like  very  much  to  know  her  history, — 
said  I. 

—  Et  moi  aussi — said  the  little  concierge,  as  he  gath- 
ered up  his  brushes  to  go  below: — Ah,  elle  etait  char- 
viante,  Monsieur,  je  vous  assure; — and  he  left;  me  to  think 
about  the  strange  things  he  had  told  me, — things  which  I 
had  not  the  least  reason  to  distrust,  since  stranger  ones 
are  happening  every  year,  and  every  month,  in  the  great 
world  of  Paris. 


The  Cafe.  99 


The   Cafe. 

"|%  yCORE  can  be  learned  of  Parisian  life  and  habits  in 
■W**  one  week  at  the  Cafe,  than  in  a  year  at  your 
English  Hotel. — To  go  to  Paris  without  seeing  the  Cafe, 
would  be  like  going  to  Egypt  without  seeing  the 
Pyramids,  or  like  going  to  Jerusalem,  without  once 
tarrying  at  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  The  Cafes  are  dis- 
tributed in  every  part  of  the  French  capital.  They  are 
the  breakfast-houses  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  maison 
garnie  : — but  not  like  any  other  breakfast-houses  on  earth 
are  those  of  Paris. 

I  remember,  that  in  the  old  Geographies,  the  gayety 
of  the  French  character  used  to  be  represented  by  a 
homely  wood-cut,  of  a  group  of  men  and  women  dancing 
violently  around  a  tree  : — now,  I  can  not  imagine  a 
better  type  of  Parisian  life  and  habitude,  than  would  be 
an  interior  view  of  a  Parisian  Cafe, — with  a  gay  and 
motley  company  loitering  at  the  little  marble  tables, 
gossipping, — reading  the  journals, — and  sipping  their 
morning  coffee. 

The  Parisian  takes  there  his  chocolate,  and  his  paper 
— his  half-cup  and  his  cigar — his  mistress  and  his  ice ; 
the  Provincial  takes  his  breakfast  and  his  National — his 
absinthe  and  his  wife :  even  the  English  take  there  their 
Galignani  and  their  eggs,  and  the  German  his  beer  and 


100  Fresh    Gleanings. 

his  pipe.  It  is  the  arena  of  the  public  life  of  Paris.  What 
the  Exchange  is  to  a  strictly  commercial  people,  the  Cafe 
is  to  the  French  people. 

There  the  politics  and  amusements  of  the  day  meet 
discussion.  Each  table  has  its  party,  and  so  quietly  is 
their  conversation  conducted,  that  the  nearest  neighbors 
are  not  disturbed.  At  one, — two  in  the  dress  of  the  Na- 
tional Guard  are  magnifying  M.  Thiers;  and  an  old  gen- 
tleman at  the  next  table,  with  gold  spectacles  and  a 
hooked  nose,  is  dealing  out  anathemas  upon  his  head. 

Opposite  the  Porte  St.  Martin,  whose  foot  ran  blood 
during  the  three  days  of  July,  is  the  Cafe  de  Make : 
there  are  more  stylish  cafes,  but  nowhere  do  they  make 
better  coffee  between  the  Madaleine  and  the  fountain  of 

the  Chateau.    There  F and  myself  breakfasted  many 

a  morning — strolling  down  from  the  Rue  de  Lancry,  a 
half-mile  upon  the  Boulevards — turning  in  at  the  corner 
door  upon  the  Rue  St.  Martin — touching  our  hats  to  the 
little  blue-dressed  Grisette  at  the  dais,  who  presided  over 
spoons,  sugar,  and  sous — and  took  our  seats  at  one  of 
the  marble  slabs,  upon  the  crimson  cushions. 

We  were,  in  general,  but  two  of  the  forty  frequenters 
of  the  Cafe  de  Malte. 

Beside  us,  would  be  some  Lieutenant  in  scarlet 

breeches,  blue  coat,  and  ugly  cap, — very  like  the  tin-pail 
in  which  New  England  housewives  boil  their  Indian-pud- 
dings— with  his  friend — some  whiskerado,  who  is  tickling 
his  vanity  by  looking  at  his  epaulettes,  and  listening  ap- 
plausively   to   his    critiques    upon    the   army  in   Algiers. 


The   Cape.  W\ 

They  are  drinking  a  dose  of  absinthe  to  whet  their  appe 
tites  for  dinner — a  thing  only  to  be  accounted  for,  from 
the  fact  that  the  Officer  dines  at  mess,  and  so  cares  little 
how  much  he  eats ; — and  that  the  whiskerado  has  an  in- 
vitation to  dine  with  a  friend,  and  so  wishes — by  double 
eating,  to  do  away  the  necessity  of  dining  to-morrow. 
On  another  side  of  us,  is  perhaps  an  old.  man  of  sixty, 
who  wears  a  wig,  and  looks  very  wisely  over  the  columns 
of  the  Presse,  and  occasionally  very  crossly  at  a  small 
dog,  which  an  old  lady  next  him  holds  by  a  string,  and 
which  seems  to  be  playing  sundry  amusing,  and  very 
innocent,  tricks  over  the  old  gentleman's  boots. 

The  lady, — his  neighbor,  looks  fondly  at  her  dog,  sip- 
ping now  and  then  at  her  chocolate, — throwing  bits  of 
crumbs  to  her  canine  companion, — all  the  while  looking 
anxiously  at  every  new  comer  through  her  glasses  — 
possibly  watching  for  some  old  admirer  ; — for  no  circum- 
stance, nor  age,  nor  place,  nor  decrepitude  can  dissipate 
a  French  woman's  vanity. 

Another  way,  are  three  talkers — each  with  his  half-cup, 
discussing  the  National.  Their  ages  are  from  twenty  to 
eighty.  There  are  characters — from  the  impudent  sans- 
culottes— to  the  dignified  man  of  the  school  of  the  Girond. 

Here  is  a  man,  just  opposite,  with  dirty  hands — 

dirty  nails — uncombed  hair,  and  dirty  beard,  who  has  finish- 
ed his  coffee,  and  sits  poring  over  a  bit  of  music — altering 
notes,  humming  a  tune,  and  drumming  on  the  table  with 
his  fingers.  He  is  doubtless  an  employe  of  the  orchestra 
of  the  Theatre  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin  over  the  way. 


;  I  Q%  .  F.ft  *  s.z*    Gleaning  s. 

I,  meantime, — over  my  coffee,  rich  as  nectar, — a  little 
pyramid  of  fresh  radishes, — a  neat  stamped  cake  of 
yellow  butter,  and  bread  such  as  is  comparable  with 
nothing  but  itself, — am  employing  the  intervals  in  study 
of  the  characters  around  me,  or  glancing  through  the 
windows  upon  the  carts,  and  coaches,  and  omnibusses, 
and  soldiers,  and  market-women,  and  porters,  and  gliding 
Grisettes, — all  of  which  suck,  like  a  whirlpool,  around 
the  angles  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin. 

Who  that  has  seen  the  gay  capital,  knows  not  the 
Cafe  de  Paris  1 — at  least  its  outward  show  of  a  summer's 
evening,  when  the  Boulevard  before  it  is  full  of  loungers, 
and  the  salons  full  within ; — and  the  Cafe  Anglais  upon 
the  corner, — and  the  Vefour, — and  the  Rotonde  of  the 
Palais  Royal  1 

1    see    before   me,   now, — though    the   hills    and 

woods  of  home  are  growing  green  around  me, — the  nice- 
looking,  black-haired  French  girl  of  twenty,  who  used  to 
come  in,  with  her  mamma,  every  morning,  at  eleven  pre- 
cisely, to  the  Vefour,  and  hang  her  mischievous-looking, 
green  sherd  bonnet  upon  the  wall  above  her  head,  and 
arrange  the  scattered  locks,  and  smooth  the  plaits  upon 
her  forehead  with  the  flat  of  her  white,  delicate  hand, — 
giving,  all  the  while,  such  side  looks  from  under  it,  as 
utterly  baffled  the  old  lady's  observation. 

Do  they  take  their  coffee  there  yet  1 — and  does  the 
middle-aged  man  with  the  red  moustache,  who  sat  oppo- 
site, bow  as  graciously  as  ever — to  Madame  first,  and  to 
Mademoiselle  last  1 — And  does  he  steal  the  sly  looks  over 


The   Cafe.  103 

the  upper  columns  of  the  Constitutionel,  as  if  all  the  news 
were  centered  along  the  top  lines, — and  as  if  I  were  not 
looking  all  the  while  between  the  rim  of  my  coffee-bowl, 
and  my  eyebrows,  for  just  such  explications  of  Paris  life? 

And  does  the  little,  cock-eyed  man  at  the  De  Lormo, 
who  breakfasted  on  two  chops  and  coffee,  still  keep 
Galignani  till  every  English  reader,  and  I  among  them, 
despaired  1 

Even  now,  the  reader  has  not  half  so  definite  an  idea 
of  a  Paris  cafe  as  I  could  wish  he  had — of  the  mirrors 
multiplying  every  thing  to  infinity — of  the  gilt  cornices — 
of  the  sanded  floors — of  the  iron-leered  tables — of  the  Ger- 
man  stove  with  its  load  of  crockery — of  the  dais,  with  its 
pyramids  of  sugar — of  the  garcons  in  their  white  aprons, 
shouting  to  the  little  woman  at  the  desk, — dixneuf- — 
qu.ara.nte — trcizc — cinq  francs — vingt-et-un — vingt-cinq. 

If  one  wants  coffee  at  near  sunrise,  or  on  to  six  or 
seven,  he  must  not  look  for  it  in  the  more  stylish  cafes. 
He  must  find  his  way  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  dil- 
igence bureaux,  or  the  Railway  ;  or  he  must  dash  boldly 
into  the  dim  salons  of  St.  Antoine,  or  beyond  the  Pont 
St.  Michel,  or  round  the  Halle  au  Ble,  or  Marche  des 
Innocens.  There  he  will  find  men  in  blouses, — mechan- 
ics— country  people,  cab-drivers,  and  journeymen  tail- 
ors, discussing  the  news  of  yesterday,  or  perhaps  six — 
looking  over  the  Constitutionel  of  the  day.  Such  men 
count  by  the  thousands,  and  make  up  a  large  part  of  the 
tone  of  popular  feeling, — with  influence  which,  how- 
ever much  it  may  be  derided  in  the  salon,  is  felt  in  the 


104  Fresh    Glean  in  q  -s. 

government,  —  an  influence  which,  when  inflamed,  has 
brought  King  and  Queen  to  execution. 

And  here  I  can  not  help  indulging,  for  a  moment, 

in  a  quiet  kind  of  triumph  at  thought  of  the  liberty  to  mingle 
in  all  such  scenes,  which  one  possesses,  who  travels — as  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  travel — alone.  He  is  bound 
to  sustain  no  aristocratic  family  pretensions ; — he  is  tied 
to  no  first  floor  at  the  hotel ; — he  has  to  consult  no  fas- 
tidious taste,  except  his  own ; — he  bears  about  with  him 
but  a  single  pair  of  curious  eyes,  that  do  not  blink  at 
dirt  or  smoke,  if  they  are  only  seeing  some  new  phase  of 
the  strange  world  they  have  come  to  see; — throwing 
off  the  flimsy  role  of  respectability,  with  a  stout  pair 
of  English  shoes  he  may  wander  over  the  city,  mind- 
less of  the  mud  of  St.  Antoine,  or  the  He  St.  Louis. 

Your  traveling  party  are  discussing  over  a  cold  break- 
fast in  the  salon  of  their  hotel, — where  they  shall  go, — 
what  among  the  thousand  sights  they  shall  see,  while  I — 
two  hours  ago  have  finished  my  coffee  at  some  quiet  table 
of  the  town — it  was  a  different  one  yesterday,  it  will  be 
a  different  one  still  to-morrow, — and  am  ready  for  the 
glories  of  the  Louvre,  or  the  mass  at  Notre-Dame. 

There  are  those  whom  the  Cafe  does  not  satisfy.  Fat 
old  Bourgeois  from  Lyons, — wool-merchants  from  Cha- 
'.eauroux,  or  apple-sellers  of  Normandy,  are  not  con- 
tent with  such  mimicry  of  the  provincial  breakfast, 
whose  abundance  would  rival  a  German  dinner.  Such 
—  and  American  breakfast-eaters  would  come  within 
the  category,  until  Paris  air  has  supplied  Paris  habits— 


The   Cap!  105 

must  give  their  orders  at  home,  or  step  into  the  Re- 
staurants within  the  Palais  Royal,  where  morning  meals 
of  two  dishes  and  dessert,  and  half  a  bottle  of  wine,  are 
eaten  for  a  franc  and  fifty  centimes,  —  and  down  the 
Rue  St.  Honore,  real  English  breakfasts  may  be  eaten 
for  the  same. 

Does  F ,  I  wonder,  remember  the  bread  that  used 

to  stand  on  end  like  a  walking-stick,  in  one  corner  of  the 
salon,  at  the  boarding-place  in  the  Rue  Beaurigard — and 
the  sour  wine — and  the  old  Madame  with  her  snuff-box  at 
her  elbow,  and  her  fingers  and  nose  bebrowned — and  what 
a  keen  eye  was  hid  under  her  spectacles,  and  what  blue- 
looking  milk,  and  what  sad,  sad  chops, — and  what  a  meek 
Monsieur — our  old  teacher — for  help-meet  1 

Yet  it  was  passable, — for  there  was  Mademoiselle, 
blithe  as  a  cricket  all  the  day. 

But  there  are  better  boarding-places  than  that  in  the 
Rue  Beaurigard. 

Par  exemplc,  la  Rue  de  Bussy. 

How  neatly  little  Marie  arranges  the  rooms — not  a 
speck  of  dirt  anywhere  ;  and  for  table  management,  who 
can  surpass  Madame  C 1 

I  shall  see  them  all  again  by  and  by — at  least  I  hope 
it,  and  hope  for  a  deep,  rich  bowl  in  the  Cafe  Vefour,  and 
a  crisp  little  loaf  of  the  Vienna  bread,  and  the  Journal,  and 
sugared  water,  and  all.  It  may  be  that  on  another  visit, 
I  may  not  be  so  free  as  at  the  last;  it  may  be, — since  the 
American,  like  the  Frenchman,  is  somewhat  gregarious 
in  his  nature, — that  incumbrances  may  lie  in  the  way  of 

F* 


i06  Fresh  Gleanings. 

a  resumption  of  the  old  rambling  humor ; — but  sure  I  am, 
that  now  and  then  of  a  morning,  I  shall  steal  away  from 
whatever  pleasant  or  painful  circumstances  may  environ 
me,  and  hunt  up,  with  a  child's  mind, — the  old  scenes, — 
the  youthful  scenes, — the  dearly-remembered  scenes, — 
of  which  I  am  now  writing. 

After  midday  at  the  Cafe,  the  small  half-cup  gains 
upon  the  bowl  of  the  morning;  and  for  three  hours  after 
noon,  there  is  a  sensible  falling  off  of  visitors ;  and  the  trim 
presidente  leaves  her  place  to  dress  for  the  evening. 

Then  drop  in  the  sorry  old  single  men,  and  quarrelling 
maiTied  men,  and  such  curious  observers  as  myself,  to 
look  at  the  fresh-faced,  bright-eyed,  neatly-dressed  fair 
one  who  presides.  As  the  hours  pass, — after-dinner 
loungers  come  in :  old  women  with  white  lap-dogs  wad- 
dle to  the  tables,  and  take  their  thimble-full  of  coffee. 
The  seats  outside  the  door  fill  up;  they  laugh  and 
lounge,  and  sip,  and  talk ; — some  stroll  away  to  the  the- 
atres ; — their  places  fill  up.  The  lamps  are  lit.  Young 
men  call  for  ices — old  men  call  for  punches.  At  half  the 
tables  is  the  rattle  of  dominoes.  Nine,  ten,  eleven,  and 
twelve  o'clock  come  over  the  Paris  world.  The  Omni- 
busses  have  stopped  thundering  by ; — the  garcons  put  up 
the  shutters.  The  people  lounge  away — not  home — there 
is  no  such  word  in  their  language,  but — chez  eux. 

So,  another  day  is  gone  from  their  lifetime  of  pleasure, 
and  they  are  twenty -four  hours  nearer  the  end. 


The  Restaurant.  107 


The   Restaurant. 

f  I^HE  Parisian  does  not  take  his  coffee  at  home,  nor  his 
-*-  dinner.  The  Frenchman  is  sociable  to  excess  ;  but 
his  socialities  are  all  out-of-door  socialities.  He  will  talk 
with  you  in  the  Diligence, — he  will  talk  with  you  in  the 
theatre,  or  at  the  cafe,  but  you  rarely  see  him  at  home. 
Friends  meet  at  the  Opera, — in  the  Garden  of  the  Tuile- 
ries,  or  dine  together  at  the  Restaurant, — and  ten  to  one, 
they  do  not  know  each  other's  lodgings. 

Nothing  is  known  practically,  by  the  Parisian,  of  our 
glorious  Saxon  home-spirit — that  spirit  which  finds  its  de- 
velopment around  the  domestic  fireside.  What  such 
book  as  the  "  Winter  Evenings  at  Home"  is  there,  in  the 
whole  range  of  French  literature  1 — What  such  poem 
as  the  "Cotter's  Saturday  Night  1" — What  such  home- 
painter — in  verse,  as  Crabbe, — or  in  colors,  as  Wilkie  1 

Christ  mas- dinner  rejoicings,  and  the  Yule-log — glori- 
ous tokens  of  the  old  Northern  feeling,  which  we  in  our 
New-land,  are  by  half  too  slack  in  sustaining — are  to  the 
Parisian,  like  the  ballads  of  the  Norsemen  to  unlearned 
ears. 

Go  with  your  letter  to  a  French  gentleman  of  the  Capi- 
tal, and  he  may  overwhelm  you  with  his  protestations  of 
friendship  ; — he  may  invite  you  to  his  box  at  the  Opera ; 
—he  may  ask  you  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Restaurant ,  but 


1 08  Fresh    Gleanings. 

you  will  rarely  be  asked  to  make  part  of  his  family  circle. 
And  this  is  not  from  distrust  altogether  —  not  that  he 
holds  his  family  too  sacred ; — it  is  because  his  social  feel- 
ings do  not,  like  the  Englishman's,  and  like  the  American's 
— centre  there.  They  are  too  much  out  of  doors.  His 
pleasures  are  out  of  his  own  house,  and  to  participate  in 
them,  you  must  go  with  him  abroad. 

His  social  spirit  is  of  larger  circumference  than  that 
belonging  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  blood,  but  it  is  less  fixed 
and  strong.  Home  is  the  place  to  make  that  spirit  fixed, 
and  strong,  and  pure.  And  as  1  recall  now  the  seemingly 
superficial  state  of  a  Society,  which  has  no  such  rallying 
point — I  thank  God  that  my  lot  is  cast  in  a  comer  of  the 
world,  where  such  an  institution  is  cherished.  And  if  it 
were  possible,  without  being  too  venturesome,  I  would 
break  away  from  the  thread  of  this  foreign  talk,  to  pro- 
test against  the  wrong  doing  of  such  as  would  lessen  the 
attractions  of  Home,  by  introducing  the  public  frivolities 
of  the  French  school  in  their  stead. 

Nothing  seems  to  me  to  have  borne  so  strong  a  part  in 
sustaining  the  integrity,  and  unity,  and  energy  of  the  Brit- 
ish nation,  as  the  firm  cherishment  of  a  Home  feeling. 
The  French  have,  indeed,  a  noisy  love  of  country — but  it 
is  entirely  separable  from  any  domestic  love.  They  wor- 
ship Jupiter — they  have  no  Penates. 

But  to  return : — some  at  Paris,  whose  means  know  no 
limit,  will  perhaps,  dine  in  their  own  apartments,  giving 
their  orders  to  the  Furnisher  of  the  King,  in  the  Palais 
Royal;  —  before    whose    windows  a  crowd    of  soldiers 


The   R  k  s  t  a  u  r  a  n  t.  10t> 

in  crimson  breeches,  and  of  men  in  blouses,  are  always 
looking  upon  the  swimming  terrapins,  and  the  salmon, 
and  the  fruit  of  every  name  and  country. 

But,  choosing  to  interpret  the  more  general  tone  of  the 
city  habits,  let  us  turn  to  the  first  of  Restaurants — the 
Trois  Freres — where  go  such  misguided  peers  as  would 
seem  rich,  and  such  rich,  as  would  seem  peers; — where 
go,  in  short,  all  who,  by  paying  high,  would  wish  to  seem 
of  the  elite.  No  window  in  the  Palais  Royal  shows  richer 
stock  of  game  and  meats,  than  the  Trois  Freres. 

Twenty  francs  will  pay  for  an  exceeding  good  dinner ; 
besides,  one  has  the  honor  of  looking  upon  men  with 
red  ribbons  in  their  button-holes,  and  of  ogling  the 
prettiest  Grisettes  of  Paris.  As  good  dinners  may  be 
had  elsewhere,  it  is  true, — but  the  eclat  of  extravagance 
belongs  to  such  as  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  or  Trois  Freres. 
And  really,  it  is  surprising  how  much  it  aids  a  man's 
good  opinion  of  himself,  to  be  the  envy  of  all  the  small 
boys  with  paper  parcels,  and  hungry-looking  newspaper 
venders,  who  see  him  going  in  or  out  of  those  brilliant 
Restaurants.  *The  cooking  is  superb  ;  as  Goldsmith  used 
to  say, — "  they  will  make  you  five  different  dishes  from  a 
nettle-pot,  and  twice  as  many  from  a  frog's  haunches." 

There  are  two  or  three  along  the  Boulevard  which 
rank  little  lower, — and  there  is  the  British  Tavern,  where 
mock-turtle  is  always  ready,  and  where  English  ale  may 
be  drank,  and  English  mustard  eaten  on  English  steaks — 
saving  only  the  horse-radish. 

The  Parisian,  however,  is  never  too  aristocratic  to  econo- 


110  Fresh    Gleanings. 

mize,  and  even  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  have  I  seen  a  dinner 
for  two,  ordered  for  five  living  souls — mother,  father,  maid, 
and  children.  How  the  five  quotients  out  of  these  two 
dividends,  with  a  hungry  man  for  divisor,  satisfy  five 
stomachs,  is  a  matter  which  one,  who  knows  Paris  better 
than  myself,  might  be  puzzled  to  answer.  The  steaks 
are  none  of  the  largest,  as  every  man  who  has  walked  the 
Boulevard  for  an  appetite  very  well  knows  ;  indeed,  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  that  the  higher  the  dinner  ranks  in  fash- 
ion, the  less  it  will  rank  in  the  scales. 

Where  do  they  give  more  heaping  plates  than  at 
Martin's,  under  the  shadow  of  the  Odeon  ?  Yet  there,  a 
man  may  fill  himself  for  his  eighteen  sous,  and  enjoy  the 
society  of  professional  men,  at  least,  the  neophytes,  who 
cut  into  the  fricandeaux,  in  a  way  that  would  do  credit 
to  the  dissecting-room.  True,  the  wainscoting  is  not  of 
mirrors,  and  the  cloths  do  not  "  smell  of  lavender,"  and 
the  wine  is  neither  old  Macon,  nor  Madere, — and  the 
stews  are  of  doubtful  origin ;  but  here,  as  everywhere 
else, — 

II  saper  troppo  quasi  eempre  nuoce. 

nreen-eyed  persons  say  the  same  of  Tavernier's  stews  ; 
but  it  can  hardly  be  credited.  Madame  T.  thrives  too 
well,  to  have  thriven  on  cat's  flesh ;  and  there  is  surely 
nothing  of  the  Grimalkin  about  the  sparkling  Demoiselle, 
who  presides  over  apricots  and  oysters. 

It  is  a  splendid  saloon  on  the  first  floor  of  the  Palais 

Royal, — overlooking  the  whole  court,  with  its  crowds  of 


The.  Restaurant.  Ill 

loungers,  and  lime-trees,  and  sparkling  fountains,  that 
has  over  its  doors  the  name  of  Tavernier. 

I  have  eaten  a  great  many  two-franc  dinners  at  the 
neat,  little  tables, — of  soup,  three  dishes,  dessert  and 
wine,  and  wish  I  had  by  me  a  bill  of  fare,  to  set  down 
some  among  its  hundred  dishes.  Still  more,  do  I  wish 
for  some  Cruikshank,  who  would  drop  in,  just  at  this 
juncture,  an  illustration  of  the  brilliant  interior  of  that 
Palais  Royal  Restaurant,  on  a  December  evening  at 
five. 

How   nicely    would    come   into   the   foreground, 

those  two  old  men  —  Cheeryble  Brothers — who  have 
dined  at  the  same  table,  at  the  same  hour,  and  on 
nearly  the  same  dishes — Martin  tells  me,  for  half  a  dozen 
years.  One  is  as  precise  as  a  Mademoiselle  of  sixty; 
and  the  other  wears  always  a  happy,  jovial,  bachelor 
look.  One  tucks  his  napkin  carefully  unfolded  in  his 
vest; — the  other  wipes  it  with  both  hands  across  his 
mouth,  and  drops  it  carelessly  in  his  lap.  One  eats 
weak  broth ; — the  other  pea  soup. 

What  a  group  would  that  long  family  of  English 
make ! 

F will  remember  I   am  sure — and  have   a 

hearty  laugh  at  the  remembrance,  of  the  tall  boy  in  the 
jacket,  with  a  collar  that  covered  his  shoulders, — and  of 
the  red-faced  Miss  (Heaven  spare  us  both  again  such  co- 
quetries of  look !)  by  half  longer  than  her  dress,  and  who 
spoke  execrable  French.  There  was,  besides,  the  oldest 
scion  of  the  family,  who  stalked  up  to  our  fat  Madame 


112  Fresh   Gleanings. 

Tavernier  every  day  for  payment;  no  such  hat  was 
surely  ever  seen  on  the  head  of  a  Frenchman,  and  he 
wore  a  coat  that  pinched  him  under  the  arms. 

—  Sacre, — whispered  the  thick-moust ached  man  at  the 
next  table, — Quel  Anglais  ! — quel  chapeau  ! — quel  habit! 
— oh,  Mon  Dieu  ! 

With  what  a  calm  dignity  the  manager  used  to  pace 
up  and  down,  with  his  napkin  white  as  snow,  folded 
over  his  left  arm ! — and  with  what  infinite  grace  did  he 
meet  the  salutations  of  every  new  comer  ! 

After  a  year's  absence  from  Paris,  on  my  return, 

1  went  one  day,  for  old  remembrance'  sake,  into  the  gay 
Restaurant    again.      The   friends  with  whom  I  used  to 

dine  were  scattered.     F ,  the  companion  of  my  Swiss 

travel,  was  long  ago  gone  home,  and  was  breaking  his 
bachelor  bread  in  the  quiet  of  New  England.  Sidney 
was  boating  it,  with  a  Maltese  dragoman,  upon  the 
"  uttermost  parts  of  the  rivers  of  Egypt."  The  last  I 
had  seen  of  Sorsby,  was  at  Venice,  where  I  went  down 
with  him  to  his  gondola,  and  waved  him  a  good-bye,  as  he 
glided  off  over  the  broad,  shining  Lagoon, — straight  on 
for  Padua. 

The  tables,  however,  were  full.  Old  Madame  Taver- 
nier still  held  the  dais  with  the  same  expression  of 
matronly  rule  as  a  twelvemonth  back.  Tavernier  himself, 
though  grown  a  trifle  older,  still  kept  his  stand  before  the 
desk,  and  slid  occasionally  about,  to  say  a  word  to  some 
Did  customer,  or  to  show  civilities  to  some  new  one. 
Mam'selle,  the  brunette,  still  presided  over  apricots  and 


T  H  E    Restaurant.  113 

oysters ;  even  the  old,  white  dog  pattered  about, 
soliciting  favors,  and  came  to  give  me  a  welcome,  by- 
rubbing  against  my  leg. 

The  long  Englishers  were  gone,  I  suspect,  to  summer 
at  Harrowgate,  and  to  talk  to  the  shabby  gentility  of  that 
watering-place,  about  the  delights  of  the  Paris  world. 
But  the  two  old  Cheeryble  Brothers  were  at  the  same 
table  yet — as  happy,  as  precise  as  ever.  What  a  mono- 
tone of  life !  There,  day  after  day,  the  host,  for  six  or 
seven  hours,  had  stirred  about  his  hall,  with  his  napkin  on 
his  arm, — the  dame  had  held  the  same  seat, — Mam'selle 
wore  the  same  coquettish  looks  over  her  plums, — the  old 
frequenters  at  the  same  hour,  had  puffed  up  the  stairs, 
and  ordered  their  little  dinners, — while  I  had  been 
counting  cities  instead  of  dishes, — had  tried  the  cooking 
of  different  nations,  instead  of  different  meats, — had 
coquetted  with  Nature,  when  and  where  she  was 
prettiest,  instead  of  ogling  the  brunette,  or  looking  after 
the  tidy  Grisettes  who  eat  their  dinners  at  the  Palais. 

I  came  back  from  cities  whose  History  furnishes  theme 
for  the  frescoes  on  Western  palaces — and  there  the  occu- 
piers of  the  old  Restaurant  were  still  driving  their  gains, 
and  discussing  calves'  head,  and  tomatoes. 


114  Fresh   Gleanings. 


Le    Grand    Vatel. 

f  INHERE  is,  not  far  away  from  Tavernier's — the  oppo- 
-*-  site  side,  Le  Grand  Vatel.  There  is  something 
iike  romance  in  eating  under  the  name  of  such  a  patron 
of  the  Kitchen. 

Vatel  lived  in   the  time  of  Louis  XIV.,*  when 

flourished  everything  that  could  quicken  appetite,  and 
excite  desire.     Poor  man — he  did  not  see  the  end  of  it ! 

He  had  gone  to  Chantilly,  to  prepare  a  fete.  The  king 
arrived  ;  the  supper  was  served.  By  some  mistake,  two 
tables  were  without  roasts.  It  cut  Vatel  to  the  quick. 
—  My  honor  is  ruined — said  he.  Fortunately,  the  table 
of  the  king  was  served.  This  restored  courage  to  poor 
Vatel.  Still,  for  twelve  nights  he  did  not  sleep.  He  told 
his  friend  Gourville,  and  Gourville  told  the  Prince.  The 
Prince  came  to  console  Vatel ; — nothing  could  be  finer, 
said  his  Highness. 

—  Monseigneur, — replied  Vatel, — your  goodness  over- 
powers me  ;  but  I  know  very  well  that  two  of  the  tables 
were  without  roasts. 


*  Madame  de  Sevigne  tells  pleasantly  the  story  of  this  mishap  of 
Le  Grand  Vatel, — dont  la  bonne  tele  itait  capable  de  contenir  tout  le 
tain  d'un  itat. — The  cooks  of  the  present  day  guard  as  scrupulously 
their  honor,  as  in  the  luxurious  age  of  Vatel. 


Le   Grand   Vatel.  115 

A  royal  breakfast  was  to  be  served  toward  the  close  of 
the  fete.  Vatel  was  all  anxiety.  He  had  ordered  the 
choicest  dishes  of  the  kingdom. 

The  morning  came,  and  Vatel  was  up  at  four.  All 
were  asleep  ;  no  one  stirring,  except  one  fish-dealer  who 
brought  two  small  parcels  ofmaree. 

—  Is  this  all,  said  Vatel. 

—  Yes  sir,  said  the  man  ; — not  knowing  that  orders 
had  been  sent  to  every  Port  along  the  coast. 

Vatel  sought  his  friend.  Gourville,  said  he,  mon  ami, 
I  shall  never  survive  this. 

—  Pooh,  said  Gourville. 

Vatel  went  to  his  chamber,  and  placing  his  sword 
against  the  door,  he  pushed  it  through  his  body,  and  fell 
upon  the  floor. 

La  marte  arrives.  They  search  for  Vatel ;  they  go  to 
his  chamber ;  they  knock — there  is  no  answer ;  they 
break  open  the  door.  They  find  him  bathed  in  blood, 
and  stone  dead. 

—  Pauvre  Vatel !  said  the  Prince.  And  now  they  sell 
dinners  for  a  franc  and  a  half  at  the  sign  of  Le  Grand 
Vatel.  I  ate  of  maree  at  the  little  tables,  but  it  was  not 
fresh. 


116  Fresh    Gleaninqu, 


Cheap    Dinners. 

ROWNE  the  philosopher,  says,  whatever  may  be  a 
man's  character,  or  complexion,  or  habits,  he  will 

find  a  match  for  them  in  London. Whatever  may  be 

a  man's  taste,  or  his  means,  he  may  find  the  gratification 
of  them,  at  some  rate,  at  Paris. 

If  the  Palais  Royal,  from  the  little  tobacco  women  to 
the  furnisher  of  the  King,  be  too  extravagant  for  one's 
means ; — if  he  can  neither  pay  two  sous  for  his  chair 
under  the  trees,  nor  take  a  six  sous  half-cup  at  the  Ro- 
tonde,  nor  a  dinner  at  such  as  the  Grand  Vatel,  he  finds 
another  neighborhood  that  ranges  lower  ;  but  be  sure,  he 
will  indulge  himself,  on  Sunday  afternoons,  with  the  stone 
.benches  along  the  borders  of  the  court,  and  very  possibly, 
luxuriate  in  a  cent  cigar.  Other  days,  he  may  be  seen 
stealing  his  way  cautiously  down  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  and 
turning  into  some  of  those  streets  that  branch  off  toward 
the  Quay,  and  the  other  side  of  the  river.  He  knows 
every  alley  that  ramifies  from  the  street  of  the  School  of 
Medecine,  and  may  even  venture  on  fast-days,  into  the 
neighborhood  of  the  long  shadowing  Pantheon. 

And  there  may  be  picked  up  dinners,  such  as 

they  are,  for  twelve  and  eight  sous,  not  a  stone's  throw 
from  the  towers  of  St.  Sulpice. 

And  what  shall  be  said  of  the  chop-houses  of  St.  Denis 


Cheap   Dinners.  117 

and  Mont  Martre  1  Curious-looking  chops,  surely,  that 
would  puzzle  a  Cuvier  to  work  on  the  skeleton  of  a  beast 
that  bleats  or  grunts ; — but  cheap  for  all  that — chop,  po- 
tato, and  bread,  for  five  sous ! 

There  may  be  seen  luscious  dinners  at  five,  not. far 
from  the  Pont  St.  Michel,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
Halle  au  Ble, — the  building  of  the  Medici  Column.* 

And  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Martin — the  number  escapes 
my  memory,  but  the  police  will  direct  the  curious,  and 
the  savory  smells  will  guide  the  hungry — there  is  a  huge 
pot  boiling  from  twelve  to  six,  filled  with  such  choice 
tit-bits  as  draw,  every  day,  scores  of  adventurers.  A 
huge  iron  fork  lies  across  the  mouth  of  the  cauldron,  and 
whoever  wishes  to  make  the  venture,  pays  two  sous  for 
a  strike.  If  he  succeeds  in  transfixing  a  piece  of  beef 
— (or  what  passes  for  beef,  in  the  dialect  of  the  quarlier) 
he  has  achieved  his  dinner,  and  at  a.  low  rate — albeit 
he  has  it  in  his  fingers,  without  sauce  or  corrective. 

Unfortunately,  however,  many  poor  fellows  ruin  their 
hopes  by  striking  too  strongly,  and  dashing  all  before 
them ;  and  they  are  mortified  at  seeing  the  fragments 
of  some  huge  bit  of  meat  which  their  energy  has  shat- 
tered, floating  in  savory  morsels  to  the  top. 

They  say  lhat  once  upon  a  time,  there  came  up 
upon  the  end  of  the  fork,  after  a  vigorous  thrust,  a 
heavy,  black-looking  substance,  which  proved  to  be  the 

*  James.  I  think,  in  one  of  his  hundred  romances,  makes  this 
Cblumn  notable.     It  was  a  part  of  the  old  Medici  Pafoce. 


118  Fresh    Gleanings. 

front  of  a  soldier's  cap.  It  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
police,  and  a  posse  of  officers  came  down  upon  the  luck- 
less Restaurateur,  and  made  seizure  of  all  the  bones 
about  his  establishment.  For  though  there  was  no  law 
forbidding  use  of  hats  for  soups,  yet  suspicion  was  ex- 
cited of  there  being  some  missing  man  in  the  mess. 

Indeed,  as  offering  precedent  for  such  suspicion,  some 
of  the  old  chronicles  of  Paris,  soberly  relate  the  following 
story : — 


The  Barber  and  the  Cook. 

¥  N  a  certain  rue  of  the  He  de  la  Cite,  now  nearly 
-*-  obliterated  by  changes,  stood,  many  centuries  ago, 
side  by  side,  the  houses  of  a  barber  and  of  a  pastry  cook. 
Their  situation  was  in  the  centre  of  the  old  world  of 
fashion,  and  no  barber  shaved  more  faces,  and  no  pastry 
cook  sold  more,  or  better  pates,  than  the  two  neighbors. 
And  they  grew  rich ; — so  rich,  that  every  one  who  knew 
anything  of  common  tradesmen's  gains,  wondered  at  it. 

The  butchers  wondered  how  the  pastry  cook  made 

so  many  pies,  and  bought  so  little  meat.  And,  by  and  by, 
it  was  observed  that  many  who  went  into  the  barber's 
shop  to  be  shaved,  never  came  out  again.  Then,  on 
a  sudden,  the  excited  people  said  that  the  barber  cut 
the  throats  of  his  customers,  and  that  the  pastry  cook 
chopped  them  into  pies. 


The    Modern    Cook.  119 

The  Parisians  are  by  no  means  fastidious  in  respect 
of  their  food ; — nor  were  they  so,  if  we  may  credit  co- 
temporaneous  writers,  in  the  time  of  St.  Louis ; — but 
even  the  Parisians  were  disgusted  at  the  horrible  idea 
of  eating  the  livers  of  their  dirty  neighbors,  instead  of 
those  of  Strasburg  geese.  The  thought  was  no  soonei 
suggested  to  that  excitable  populace,  than  they  rushed 
en  masse  to  the  shops  of  the  tradesmen — hung  them  upon 
poles  before  their  own  doors,  and  pulled  down  their 
dwellings. 

If  the  Abbe  G and  myself  were  light  in  our  inves- 
tigations,—  an  old  lodging-house  stands  at  present  over 
the  spot,  where  lived  the  murderous  barber,  and  the  can- 
nibal cook. 


The    Modern    Cook. 

fi^HE  lront  of  the  soldier's  cap,  however,  in  the  Fau- 
bourg  St.  Martin,  proved  a  false  alarm,  since  no 
human  bones  were  found  in  the  Restaurateur's  collection, 
and  no  soldier  was  missing  from  the  Casernes. 

It  is  by  no  means  reputable  to  be  found  venturing  one's 
chance  for  dinner  in  such  places;  and  I  was  credibly 
assured  that  some  medical  students,  and  barbers  had 
lost  caste  with  their  profession,  for  cultivating  too  great 
familiarity  in  such  neighborhoods. 

Better  dinners,   and  safer,  may  be  had   in   the  great 


120  Fresh    Gleanmngs. 

square  of  the  Marche"  ties  Innocens. — What  more  glorious 
salon  ! — the  bright,  blue  sky  of  a  Paris  summer  is  over- 
head ; — tall,  old  buildings  lift  their  quaint  gables,  min- 
gled with  elegant  modem  fronts  on  every  side ;  —  the 
fountain  in  the  middle  pours  over  in  streaming  floods, 
its  bubbling  and  sparkling  torrents,  making  the  air  cool 
even  in  the  heats  of  July;  and  around,  are  scattered 
rich  stores  of  richest  vegetables  from  the  fine  gardens 
of  Normandy  ; — and  dotted  among  them  are  the  people 
of  Brittany  in  their  queer  caps  and  petticoats  ;  —  and 
honest,  ruddy  faces  that  have  ripened  on  the  sunny  banks 
of  the  Loire. 

Just  around  the  edge  of  the  basin  that  catches  within 
its  lips  of  stone,  the  waters  of  the  fountain,  are  arranged 
some  half  dozen  deal  tables,  and  here  and  there  pots 
are  boiling,  and  bowls  and  spoons  in  readiness,  and 
an  old  lady  with  a  huge  handkerchief  upon  her  head,  to 
serve  you. 

You  will  find  beans,  or  potatoes,  or  meat,  and  you 
may  have  a  bowl  of  either  of  the  two  first  for  a  sou  ;  but 
bread  and  salt  are  extras  ; — meat  ranges  a  trifle  higher, 
and  few  but  the  aristocrats  of  the  neighborhood  presume 
upon  the  meat.    No  better  place,  for  the  price,  can  be  found 

in  Paris ; — my  investigations  with  the  good  Abbe  Gr 

have  quite  satisfied  me  on  this  point.  If  it  rains,  of 
course  an  umbrella  must  be  earned,  or  the  broth,  which 
is  not  the  least  part  of  the  dinner,  will  be  cooled.  One 
may  end  with  a  handful  of  rich  plums,  and  as  cheap  as 
the  broth. 


The    Modern    Cook.  121 

Outside  the  barriers  of  the  Octroi,*  up  and  down  the 
Seine,  and  at  the  Barrier  du  Tione,  are  restaurants  for 
6uch  as  choose  to  walk  farther,  and  pay  less:  or  who 
prefer  a  poor  rabbit,  to  a  fat  cat  Little  stands  of  fruit, 
and  wine,  and  cake,  abound,  where  they  escape  the  tithe 
of  the  tax-gatherer,  and  on  Sundays  are  thronged  by 
thousands  from  the  Capital, 

We  have  hardly  yet  done  with  dinners  within  the  city. 
Many  a  poor  fellow  is,  at  this  very  hour, — five  of  the  af- 
ternoon,— perspiring  over  a  chafing-pan  of  coals,  whose 
fumes  escape  at  a  broken  pane  of  glass,  and  over  which 
is  sissing  and  steaming  a  little  miserable  apology  for 
a  rump-steak.  These  are  the  single  men,  who  wish 
to  keep  up  appearances;  and  you  might  see  one  of 
them  upon  the  Boulevard,  and  never  guess  but  he  was  a 
diner  at  a  reputable  restaurant ; — except  you  might  ob- 
serve that  his  wristbands  were  turned  carefully  up  out  of 

sight,  and  his  collar  covered   with   a  black  cravat. 

Poor  fellow !  he  has  no  shirt, — though  the  coat  is  a  good 
one  in  its  way,  and  so  with  the  hat. 

On  fete  days  he  shows  linen,  and  calls  for  a  bottle  of 

*  The  city  of  Paris  is  surrounded  by  an  iron  palisade  called  the 
Barrier.  There  are  fifty  entrances,  some  of  them  of  splendid  archi- 
tectural effect ;  and  at  each  is  collected  the  so-called  Octroi  duty,  on 
all  consumable  matter  entering  the  capital.  Every  person  entering 
is  examined.  Guizot  himself  stops  his  carriage  and  submits  to  offi- 
cial inspection.  Nearly  ten  millions  of  dollars  are  realized  annually 
from  this  source  alone.  It  is  strictly  a  Municipal  tax,  and  obtains  in 
all  the  large  t.ywns  of  France. 

F 


122  Fkesii   Gleanings. 

ordinary  beer  at  one  of  the  cafes  up  the  Champs  Elysees. 
On  other  days,  his  means  oblige  him  to  cut  the  restau- 
rants, and  take  a  small  cut  of  the  butcher  off  the  fore- 
quarter,  and  near  the  knuckle.  Sometimes  he  takes  the 
-knuckle  itself  for  a  bit  of  soup ;  and  with  a  little  potato, 
and  parsley,  and  salt,  followed  by  a  piece  of  bread,  it 
really  makes  a  very  palatable  dinner. 

There  are  poor  artists,  and  Americans  among  them, 
who,  for  worthier  motives  than  occasional  dress,  eat  their 
dinners  thus,  rather  than  risk  the  doubtful  meats  in  the 
lower  class  of  restaurants.  Indeed  no  dinner  of  ordinary 
bulk,  ranging  much  under  thirty  sous,  can  be  eaten  in 
Paris  without  suspicion  ; — unless,  indeed,  it  be  of  those 
vegetable  potages  which  are  served  up  under  the  rich 
old  fountain  of  the  Marche  des  Innocens. 

None  understand  the  economy  of  eating  better  than 
the  French.  A  knuckle  will  serve  a  Frenchman  farther 
than  a  haunch  an  ordinary  man. 

All  the  arts  of  securing  nutrition  from  that  which  chem- 
ists might,  by  the  weak  tests  of  their  laboratory,  declare 
to  have  no  nutritious  matter  at  all,  belong  peculiarly  to 
the  alchemy  of  French  cooking.  There  is  no  part  of  the 
brute  structure,  but  yields  something  in  the  form  of  digest- 
ible dishes  to  their  rigorous  investigations. 

Whatever  will  season  a  soup,  or  flavor  a  pudding,  in 
the  vegetable  or  animal  world,  is  known.  It  has  been 
submitted  to  their  kitchen  analysis  j  and  the  synthesis — to 
use  the  language  of  the  schools — is  even  more  wonderful 
than  the  strange  results  of  their  analysis.     Compounds 


The    Modern    Cook.  123 

without  number, — amalgamations  of  qualities  as  opposite 
as  nature  could  form  them, — combination  heaped  upon 
combination,  and  a  name  for  each  successive  product, 
chosen  with  the  same  skill  that  directs  the  formation  of 
the  object  to  be  named: — so  that,  poor  as  the  French 
language  is  in  general  terms,  none  is  richer  in  table  vo- 
cabulary ;  and  their  omelette,  andfricandcau,  and  pate  pass 
muster  in  nearly  all  the  languages  of  Europe. 

Many  strangers  in  Paris  search  English  restaurants,  in 
the  hope  (a  vain  one)  of  finding  the  rich  mottled  beef  of 
Hereford,  or  the  banks  of  the  Tweed.  There  was  an  old 
lady  who  cooked  beef-sirloins,  and  made  plum-pudding 
under  the  West  side  of  the  Madaleine ;  and  her  tables 
were  always  full.  The  only  real  English  roast  beef  in 
Paris,  I  found  there  ;  they  pretend  to  it  at  the  Royal,  and 
the  British  tavern;  but  the  meat  has  no  smell  of  the 
shambles.  I  give  the  palm  to  the  old  lady ; — without, 
however,  great  cause  to  remember  her  little  rooms  with 
favor,  since  it  was  in  them  I  lost  a  fair-made  bet  for  a 
couple  of  bottles  of  Chablis. 

I  declared  one  day  to  my  friend  G that  the  red- 
faced  man  over  opposite  me  was  an  Englishman.  The 
evidence  was, — he  ate  mustard  with  his  beef,  and  called 
for  a  hot  plate.     Could  there  be  better] 

G said  no ;  thereupon  we  staked  the  wine,  and  ap- 
pealed across  the  table.  The  bet  was  lost :  but  the  man 
had  lived  fifteen  years  in  England. 

We  drank  one  bottle  of  the  Chablis  two  evenings  after, 
before  the  little  grate, — in  the  room  at  the  end  of  the  long 


124  Fresh  Gleanings. 

corridor, — in  a  hotel  garni  of  the  Rue  de  Seine ; — and  friend 

Abbe  G ! — sitting  there  before  your  grate, — in  your 

room  at  the  end  of  the  corridor, — in  the  hotel  garni  of  the 
dark  Rue  de  Seine, — pray,  when  shall  we  drink  the 
other  1 


The   Religion   of  Paris. 

OJ  PEAKING  of  my  friend  the  Abbe,  brings  to  mind 
*^  his  character  and  pursuits.  He  used  to  remind  me 
of  that  good  Abbe  of  the  He  de  France,  who  advised  and 
condoled  with  the  widowed  mothers,  and  who  figures  in 
a  long  black  robe,  and  broad-brimmed  hat,  in  all  the  illus- 
trated copies  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia."  But,  my  friend 
did  not  wear  habitually  his  Church  uniform,  for  his  care 
had  been  a  large  one  in  the  country,  and  he  had  come 
like  all  Frenchmen  to  the  city  for  relief:  he  has  even  ven- 
tured upon  a  nice  haunch  of  mutton  with  me  upon  Fri- 
day. For  all  this,  he  had  far  higher  respect,  and  love  for 
the  spirit  and  observances  of  the  Religion  of  the  Metropo- 
lis, than  I  ever  had  myself. 

Religion  at  Paris,  always  seemed  to  me  more  of  a  sen- 
timent than  a  principle  : — that  is  to  say,  their  Religion 
has  more  the  liveliness  of  a  feeling,  than  the  earnestness 
of  absorbing  duty.  Except  at  times  of  funeral,  one  sees 
few  earnest  faces  in  the  Parisian  churches  ;  they,  the  wor- 
shippers, do  not  leave  wholly  their  gayety  at  the  door. 


The   Religion    of   Paris.  125 

They  listen  to  the  prayer  and  to  the  discourse,  attentively 
— rarely  can  you  see  more  of  attention ;  but  it  seemed  to 
me  always  an  attention  fixed  upon  the  eloquent  lapse  of 
words,  or  some  sweet  mental  image  of  the  Virgin ; — an 
attention  made  grateful  by  the  presence  of  the  pictures, 
and  the  groined  arches  overhead,  and  the  fragrant  odors 
of  burning  herbs  ; — an  attention,  it  may  be  most  devout, 
with  some  fancied  or  real  presence  of  God  in  the  soul, — 
but  very  rarely  the  attention  of  what  Protestants  call  "  a 
broken  and  a  contrite  heart." 

No  people  would  be  so  intolerant  of  unadorned  church- 
es and  poor  preaching,  as  the  Parisians.  Nor  would  they 
altogether  fancy  the  scolding  habit  of  the  Scotch  presby- 
ters ;  they  mean  to  be  happier  after  a  service  than  before 
it.  Why  a  sad  man  should  go  to  church  to  come  away 
sadder,  is  what  they  can  not  comprehend.  I  remember 
that  Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  one  of  her  letters  to  her 
daughter,  gives  this  admirable  comment  upon  one  of  the 
sermons  of  the  great  men  of  her  time  : — "  II  fit  le  signe  de 
la  croix,  il  dit  son  texte ;  il  ne  nous  gronda  jwint ;  il  ne 
nous  dit  point  d'injures  ;  il  nous  pria  de  ne  point  craindre 
la  mort,  puis  qu'elle  c'tait  le  seul  passage  que  nous  eus- 

sions   pour  ressuciter  avec  Jesus  Christ nous  JTimes 

tous  contents"  Ninon  d'Enclos  might  have  heard  the  same 
doctrine,  and  said  as  much  of  it,  and  as  truthfully.  And 
it  is  true  of  a  great  many  discourses,  which  have  not  the 
redeeming  excellences  of  Bourdaloue. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  Religious  bigotry  known  at 
Paris  ; — this  would  seem  strange  to  a  man  fresh  from  such 


126  Fresh   Gleanings. 

pleasant  reading  as  the  Chronicle  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
St.  Germain  1'Auxerrois  is  still  standing,  and  its  tower  is 
standing,  from  which,  on  that  dreadful  August  night  of 
1572,  went  out  the  first  signal  for  slaughter ; — but  at  the 
foot  of  it  now,  as  you  enter  the  door,  an  old  man  with  a 
gray  shock  of  hair  is  standing,  and  sprinkles  Holy  water 
on  you,  from  his  horse-hair  brush.  Innocent-looking 
priests  glide  up  and  down  upon  the  pavement,  and  the 
sunlight  streams  through  the  stained  windows, — and  it 
seemed  to  me,  as  I  saw  it  flickering  in  rainbow  colors 
over  the  gray  columns, — a  sort  of  token,  a  new  "  cove- 
nant with  promise"  that  no  such  Bartholomew  slaugh- 
ters should  come  again. 

Every  man  in  Paris  seems  satisfied  with  his  own  Reli- 
gion, and  very  careless  about  his  neighbor's.  Every  sect 
follows  its  peculiar  observances  without  hindrance ;  nay 
— the  very  church  where  the  most  zealous  Calvinists 
worship,  was  granted  them  by  the  crown,  and  enjoys  a 
stipend  from  the  Government.  Scarce  is  there  a  Protes- 
tant church  in  the  kingdom  but  receives  some  degree  of 
administrative  support.  Even  the  first  man  in  authority 
in  the  realm, — M.  Guizot,  is  a  Protestant.  And  amid  all 
the  hatred  to  which  that  minister  is  subjected,  by  his 
peace  policy,  one  hears  no  odium  thrown  upon  his  Reli- 
gious belief. — This  is  a  thing  apart — a  thing  speculative — 
a  thing  for  noble  reflections — a  thing  to  lend  a  little  mys- 
tery to  verse — a  sublime  episode  to  life — a  thing  to  ren- 
der beauty  attractive  by  adding  devotional  sentiment — a 
thing  to  add  a  little  grace  to  companionship,  by  an  un- 


The    Religion    of   Paris.  127 

seen,  but  fully  accredited  tie  j — little  else  of  Religion  is 
recognized  at  Paris.* 

The  Sunday  at  Paris  is  richly  illustrative  of  the 
Religious  tendencies  of  the  people.  It  is  the  festive  day 
of  the  week.  The  authorities  give  their  finest  military 
displays  in  the  court  of  the  palace  ; — the  fountains  of  the 
Garden  play  in  their  best  style ; — the  shop  windows 
wear  their  richest  appearance ; — the  theatres  show  their 
best  pieces ; — and  the  galleries  of  art  are  crowded  with 
their  gayest  company.  Yet  it  is  not  forgotten  by  the 
Parisians  that  the  day  has  a  sacred  purpose.  At  the 
morning  mass, — at  an  hour  when  many  good  Protestant 
people  are  dallying  with  sleep, — the  pavement  of  Notre- 
Dame,  and  the  Madaleine  is  covered  thick  with  kneeling 
worshippers,  who  say  their  beads,  and  say  their  prayers 
with  the  earnestness  of  true  devotion. 

I  have  many  a  time  leaned  against  one  of  the  beaded 
columns  of  the  Madaleine,  when  the  sun  was  just  begin- 
ning to  throw  slanting  rays  through  the  windows  of  the 
roof,  and  listened  meditatively  to  the  broken  chantings 
by  the  altar,  or  watched  the  comers,  as  they  dipped  their 
fingers  in  the  Holy  font,  and  stepped  lightly  along  the 
marble  floor,— crossing  themselves  as  they  passed  opposite 

*  In  his  argument  for  the  support  of  Christianity,  Chateaubriand 
uses  this  remarkable  language : — La  Religion  Chretienne  est  la  plus 
poitiqnc.  la  plus  humaine,  la  plus  favorable  a  la  liberte,  aux  arts  et 
aux  lettres,  que  le  monde  moderne  lui  doit  tout,  depuis  l'agri  culture 
jusqu'aux  sciences  abstraites;  depuis  l'hospice  pour  les  malhereux, 
jusqu'aux  temples  batis  par  Michel  Ange,  est  decores  par  Raphael. 


*28  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  altar,  and  bowing  to  the  sacred  image, — throwing  a 
single  rapid  glance  over  the  kneeling  company,  then 
stooped  gently  till  their  knees  met  the  marble  pavement, 
and  began  their  silent  Worship. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  some  poor  girl  seizing  those  early 
hours,  before  the  employ  of  the  shop  began,  and  hoping  by 
favor  of  the  Virgin,  under  whose  image  she  prays,  for  a 
happy  stroll  at  evening  with  her  lover,  under  the  trees  of 
the  Champs  Elysees.  Perhaps  it  is  some  lady  in  rich 
dress,  with  gold-clasped  service  book, — for  there  is  this 
Religious  beauty  in  the  Catholic  Church,  that  rank  and 
wealth  lose  themselves  amid  the  "  crowd  of  witnesses," 
and  there — the  Countess  kneels,  with  a  begging  woman 
kneeling  beside  her, — and  they  beg  together  for  Grace. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  gay  postillion,  in  his  crimson-faced 
coat,  who  now  comes  tip-toeing  along,  looking  grave, 
and  crossing  himself,  and  kneeling  in  a  humble  place, 
and  gazing  steadfastly  upon  the  image  of  Christ  that  is 
over  the  altar.  For  a  little  time,  his  soul  seems  absorbed 
in  the  view,  but  now  his  eye  wanders  over  the  frescoes 
of  the  ceiling, — the  little  bell  tinkles, — he  remembers 
himself,  and  bows  his  head.  Now  he  rises  and  wanders 
stealthily  to  the  door; — dips  his  hand  in  the  Holy  water; 
— turns  his  face  to  the  Virgin, — bows, — goes  softly  out, — 
and  in  an  hour  thereafter,  is  shouting  French  oaths  to  his 
horses,  on  his  way  to  the  borders  of  France. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  stout  Sergent-de-ville,  striding  about 
with  his  chapeau  under  his  arm,  that  meets  your  eye. 
His  looks  wander  over  the  kneeling  forms.     He  is  least 


The   Religion    of    Paris.  129 

religious  of  all.  If  he  prays,  it  is  hurriedly,  as  if  it  were 
not  his  business,  and  he  kneels,  as  if  he  rarely  knelt. 
The  people  come  and  go,  till  the  sun  is  fairly  up  in  the 
sky,  and  the  crowd  disperses. 

Sunday  is  the  great  day  at  the  Cafe,  and  the  Restau- 
rant; on  no  other  day  are  their  gains  so  great.  The 
savings  of  the  week  are  lavished  upon  the  indulgences  of 
Sunday.  Whoever  dines  upon  a  knuckle  other  days, 
luxuriates  in  a  fricandeau  on  the  Dvmanche.  Whoever 
dines  at  moderate  prices  the  six  days,  dines  at  the  Trois 
F  re  res  the  seventh ;  and  who  drinks  ordinary  wine  the 
rest  of  the  week,  on  Sunday  orders  the  best. 

The  garden  of  the  palace  is  full  to  overflowing ; — Ver- 
sailles is  crowded  with  Parisian  company,  and  the  Gallery 
of  the  Louvre  on  no  other  day  is  so  thronged  with 
visitors.  The  stall-men  of  the  Champs  Elysees,  with 
their  cakes,  and  games,  and  swings,  drive  their  best 
bargains  upon  Sundays, — the  necromancers,  and  sleight- 
of-hand  men  under  the  trees,  are  always  at  work  upon 
Sunday.  The  public  balls  are  fullest; — soldiers  are 
plentiest  along  the  walks ; — omnibusses  charge  double 
prices ; — and  the  public  conscience  seems  lighter  upon 
Sunday  than  any  day  of  the  week. 

Parisian  Religion  with  all  that  is  good  in  it, — and  its 
tender  devotional  sentiment  is  good,  and  its  charity  and 
liberality  are  good, — has  yet  very  little  about  it  of 
that  sturdy  self-denial  for  "  conscience'  sake,"  which 
makes  the  Protestant  Religionist  moral.  Indeed,  so  much 
is  Religion  at  Paris  a  sentiment,  and  so  little  a  principle. 


130  Fresh    Gleanings. 

that  it  seems  to  adorn  even  profligacy ;  and  the  poor  girl, 
thrown  loose  upon  that  luxuriously  rolling  tide  of  Pans 
life,  with  eyes  tearful  before  the  Virgin  in  Notre-Dame, 
— prays  for  constancy  ;  and  would  as  soon  be  without  her 
crucifix,  as  without  her  lover. 

Of  the  priesthood,  there  are  without  doubt  very  many 
who  are  vicious,  and  perhaps  as  many — certainly  many, 
who  are  pure. — There  are,  it  may  be,  many  worthy, 
and  well-meaning  souls,  in  valleys  of  New  England — 
possibly  in  other  valleys — looking  ever  on  Papacy  as  a 
scarlet-clad  harlot,  or  a  spotted  beast,  who  will  not 
accept  even  my  Protestant  testimony,  to  the  fact,  that 
human  sympathies  sometimes  dwell  under  a  Papal  priest- 
robe.  Yet  however  sad  the  truth  may  seem, — it  is  even 
so.  Nay, — Orthodoxy  itself,  sometimes  lifts  up  its  voice 
in  Papal  pulpits  at  Paris;  and  I  am  sure  I  have  heard  as 
honest  doctrine  as  that  of  Massillon,  in  the  discourses  of 
to-day ;  and  he  who  looks  on  Massillon  as  an  unbeliever, 
has  something  to  unlearn. 

But  the  strong  Protestant  may  find  pure  doctrine 
at  Paris,  beside  such  as  may  be  winnowed  from  Romish 
sermons,  through  the  colander  of  his  prejudices  ; — in  the 
very  heart  of  the  city,  at  the  Oratoire,  may  be  heard, 
every  Sunday,  the  sternest  Calvinism.  The  seats  are 
always  full :  there  are  Swiss  faces,  and  Saxon  faces, 
and  not  a  few  French  faces;  and  the  hymns  that  are 
sung  so  quietly,  and  yet  in  so  heartfelt  a  way,  offer  grate- 
ful contrast  to  the  astounding  music  of  the  church  of  St. 
Euslache. 


The    Religion    of    Paris.  131 

There  is  the  little  chapel  of  that  Church  of  England 
which  sends  its  Chaplains  to  every  capital  of  Europe,  and 
which  offers  up  its  prayers  for  Her  Majesty,  and  the 
realm,  under  every  sky,  and  on  every  sea.  A  bishop 
reads  those  prayers  at  Paris ;  and  one  may  listen — an 
American  wanderer  may  listen,  to  good,  sweet,  home- 
sounding  English,  in  performance  of  those  sacred  offices, 
which,  if  he  be  of  New  England  education,  are  bound 
up  in  some  measure  with  his  being. 

Religious  truth  is  not  so  closely  treasured  in  the  hearts 
of  the  Parisian  world,  as  that  its  ministers  can  exercise 
any  considerable  control  over  the  public  feeling.  Inter- 
course between  clergy  and  laity,  seemed  friendly  and  fa- 
miliar, —  rarely  dictatorial  on  the  one  side,  or  slavish  on 
the  other. 

Many  a  time  have  I  been  with  the  good-natured  Abbe, 
of  whom  I  have  spoken,  on  his  parochial  visits  ; — for  there 
were  some  sheep  of  his  old  flock,  who  had  found  their 
way,  like  himself,  to  the  Capital. 

At  the  top  of  five  pair  of  stairs  in  a  dark  street,  near 
the  Louvre,  in  a  very  old  hotel,  lived  a  quiet,  deaf  man, 
who  had  seen  the  Swiss  guard  shot  down  in  the  palace 
balcony,  from  his  own  window, — who  wore  a  grizzled 
brown  wig,  and  the  seams  of  sixty  years  in  his  cheeks ; 
yet  the  old  gentleman  always  bustled  about  in  the  liveliest 
possible  welcome,  whenever  the  Abbe  paid  him  a  visit. 
A  matronly-looking  woman,  in  spectacles,  the  mistress 
of  the  house,  always  arranged  a  big  arm-chair  for  the 
Abbe,  and  the  thiee  friends  used  to  discourse  together, 


1 32  Fresh    G  l  e  a  n  i  k  g  s. 

and  the  tabby  cat  to  pur  upon  the  hearth, — for  all  the 
world,  as  if  they  were  true  New  England  gossips ;  and 
just  as  three  old  people  might  do,  who  study  Canticle 
and  Catechism,  instead  of  Confessional  and  Creed. 

The  old,  deaf  man,  prided  himself  on  speaking  six 
or  seven  words  of  English  very  fluently ;  but  whenever  I 
got  beyond — good  night,  Sir, — or — fine  day,  Sir, — his 
deafness  grew  upon  him  wonderfully. 

A  letter  had  come  in  one  evening  from  a  young 
English  girl,  who  had  been  a  protege  of  the  old  man's, 
but  who  had  now  gone  back  to  her  home.  The  Abbe 
translated  it  for  him  :  it  was  a  sweet  letter,  and  touched 
the  old  man's  heart ;  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  expres- 
sion, with  which,  when  the  letter  was  ended,  he  repeated 
her  name  after  tha  Abbe,  and  said — chcrefille  ! 

I  did  not  then  know  the  story  of  her  association 
with  the  old  man,  or  it  would  not  have  seemed  so 
strange ; — it  was  told  me  afterward,  and  if  I  was  not 
writing  notes  of  travel,  I  should  take  the  trouble  to  set  it 
down. 

Clerie  was  a  noble-hearted  young  fellow, — another 
friend  of  the  Abbe's,  the  only  son  of  a  wealthy  gentle- 
man, who  lived  some  thirty  leagues  in  the  country.  He 
was  studying  for  the  priesthood  at  one  of  the  Paiisian 
colleges ; — poor  fellow  !  he  never  served  his  priesthood 
here. 

1  had  come  back  from  the  Auvergne,  full  of  life, 

and  went  through  the  old  corridor  in  the  Rue  de 
Seine,    to    see    my   fr.end    the    Abbe.     He    opened   the 


The    Religion    of    Paris.  133 

door  softly,  and  wore  his  priest-robe,  and  a  solemn  look ; 
he  shook  my  hand  warmly,  but  pointed  to  a  gray-haired 
man  who  was  writing  in  the  corner,  and  put  his  finger  on 
his  lip. 

—  Who  is  it  ? — said  I. 

—  Clerie's  father, — said  he. 

—  And  where  is  Clerie  ] — said  I. 

—  He  died  last  night! — and  the  Abbe  put  his  finger 
on  his  lip,  and  turned  to  the  old  man.  The  old  man 
was  writing  to   his  wife, — telling  the   mother   how  her 

only  boy  was  dead.     It  was  hard  work  to  do  it. No 

wonder  that  he  bit  the  end  of  his  quill ; — no  wonder 
that  he  pressed  his  hand  hard  upon  his  forehead; — 
no  wonder  the  Abbe  put  his  finger  on  his  lip. 

So,  thought  I,  Death's  gripe  is  very  much  the  same  thing 
here,  that  it  is  everywhere  else  ; — and  Religion,  whatever 
it  be,  and  however  it  soften,  can  not  take  away  wholly 
the  edge  from  human  sorrow. 

—  Mais  il  est  hcitreux — but  he  is  happy, — said  the 
Abbe, — il  avail  un  bon  cceur, — he  had  a  good  heart. 

And  so  there  are  a  great  many  good  hearts  in  Paris, 
though  the  Religion,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning, — and  the 
Abbe  must  pardon  me, — always  seemed  to  me  more  of  a 
Bentiment,  than  a  principle. 


134  Fresh   Gleanings. 


Le    Physique   de    Paris. 

Q  TRANGE— said  I,  to  my  friend  Sidney,  whom  \ 

*>?  met  very  unexpectedly,  my  second  day  in  Paris, 
and  who  kindly  offered  to  conduct  me  along  the  Boule- 
vards,— strange  that  the  descriptions  of  these  tourists  give 
a  man  so  inadequate  an  idea  of  places.  I  dare  say, — con- 
tinued I, — that  I  have  read  in  my  lifetime  some  dozen 
descriptions  of  these  very  Boulevards  we  are  going  to 
see ;  and  yet  I  do  not  know  whether  they  are  most  like 
Broadway,  or  Boston  Common,  or  Pennsylvania  Avenue. 

—  Not  so  strange  as  you  think, — said  he, — since  they 
are  no  more  like  one  than  the  other. 

—  Pray,  then,  what  are  they  like? — said  I 

At  that,  he  commenced  a  long  rigmarole  about  Paris 
having  been  limited,  through  its  early  years,  to  the  island 
of  La  Cite,  in  the  middle  of  the  Seine, — how  it  grew  over 
upon  the  Northern  and  Southern  banks  in  after  time, — 
how  walls  were  built  around  it  to  protect  it,  and  how, 
after  it  had  extended  a  long  way  beyond  the  walls,  Louis 
XIV.,  who  loved  women  better  than  wars,  had  given 
orders  to  pull  down  the  walls,  and  plant  a  broad  street  in 
place  of  them  around  the  city.  This  street  they  call  Les 
Boulevards.  But  the  city  grew  faster  on  the  Northern 
than  on  the  Southern  bank,  so  that  the  old  Northern  ram- 
part or  Boulevard  has  come  to  be  near  the  middle  of  the 


Le    Physique   de    Paris.  135 

modern  city,  while  the  Southern  is  still  in  the  suburbs. 
This  last,  with  its  double  rows  of  lindens,  its  tall  houses 
with  their  gardens,  and  its  quiet,  has  something  the  air 
of  the  park  of  our  Eastern  city.  Again,  that  portion  of 
the  Boulevards  connecting  the  two  toward  the  East,  is 
the  haunt  of  jugglers,  and  sellers  of  old  books — has  its 
rows  of  trees,  its  small  theatres,  its  Column  of  the  Bas- 
tille,— a  medley  which,  with  its  breadth,  makes  it  not 
unlike  the  Avenue  at  Washington ;  while  the  North 
Boulevard,  overgrown  with  city  palaces,  and  swallowed 
up  by  the  town,  has  ten  times  the  gayety  and  glitter  of 
Broadway. 

As  you  may  see  for  yourself, — said  he — for  just 

then  we  turned  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Richelieu,  and  were 
standing, — he  smiling,  and  I  staring, — upon  the  Boulevards 
of  Paris. 

At  least, — said  I, — they  might  have  told  us  that 

the  paving-blocks  were  square,  and  of  granite — that  the 
houses  were  of  a  yellowish-brown  stone,  with  sculptured 
cornice,  and  that  they  were  a  half  higher  than  Broadway 
houses,  and  the  windows  by  half  larger — that  the  walks 
had  rows  of  trees,  and  that  under  them  thronged  people 
of  every  size,  and  dress,  and  country,  and  condition ;  and 
that  the  shop  windows  glittered  with  every  conceivable 
brilliancy. 

Ten  times  as  much  might  be  said,  without  carrying  into 
the  mind  of  the  reader  one  spark  of  that  feeling  of  pleased 
amaze,  with  which  the  stranger  looks  through  a  pair  of 
greedy,  untamed,  Western  eyes,  upon  the  splendors  of 


136  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  French  metropolis.  Yet  the  reader  shall  sit  down 
upon  one  of  the  stone  benches  along  the  walk,  a  single 
half  hour  with  us,  if  it  please  him,  and  we  will  see  who 
passes. 

It  was  an  old  amusement  for  me ; — sometimes  my  eye 
would  follow  a  stout  Sergent-de-ville  with  light  sword  and 
cocked  hat,  glancing  cautiously  around — never  giving  oc- 
casion for  remark,  yet  seeing  all  he  wishes  to  see ; — an 
eye  now  upon  the  row  of  cabmen  along  the  street, 
then  upon  the  window  of  that  Restaurant,  and  a  snuff 
at  the  grating  in  the  cellar  below ; — a  side  glance  at  an 
elegant  woman  in  a  cashmere,  who  comes  dashing  along, 
and  a  quick  eye  upon  two  or  three  fellows  in  ragged 
blouses,  who  are  stealing  round  the  jeweller's  shop  at  tne 
corner ; — so  with  his  hands  carelessly  locked  behind  him, 
and  his  glances  every  where,  he  saunters  on. 

Next  come  two  or  three  short  soldiers  in  their  red  pan- 
taloons, newly  arrived  at  Paris.  They  look  at  every  thing, 
and  have  not  yet  learned  enough  of  Paris  ways,  not  to 
look  at  persons.  They  read  the  theatre  bills  on  the  posts, 
and  sigh  that  they  have  not  a  few  spare  sous  for  the  par- 
terre. One  of  the  mounted  municipal  guard  catches  their 
eye,  and  they  turn  short  around  to  look  at  his  long  plume 
of  waving  horse-hair,  and  brazen  helmet,  as  he  gallops 
by; — you  can  see  their  significant  smiles  of  admiration, 
and  you  can  fancy — if  you  have  any  fancy  at  all — what  a 
magnificent  story  they  will  make  of  it  when  they  go  back 
to  the  vineyards  of  Gascoigne. 

Presently  a  little  shop-girl,  a  Grisette,  comes  stealing 


L  i   Physioue    d  e   Paris.  137 

her  quick  paces  through  the  throng  of  passers ; — swing- 
ing, with  the  happiest  air  in  the  world,  her  brown 
paper  parcel,  and  arranging,  from  time  to  time,  the 
hair  parted  over  her  forehead ;  she  looks  at  you  with- 
out seeming  to  look ;  she  enjoys  all  the  flattery  of  your 
stare,  without  allowing  you  to  suspect  it.  You  may  ogle 
her,  or  you  may  not  look  at  all — it  is  all  one ;  on  she 
trips, — happy,  seemingly,  as  innocence.  She  stops  yon- 
der just  one  moment  before  the  window  of  jewTels;  hei 
desires  are  only  hopes,  and  her  hopes  do  not  disturb  her ; 
she  is  a  true  philosopher;  she  knows  what  her  means 
will  command,  and  she  may  wish, — but  she  sighs  for 
nothing  more.  Yonder,  again,  at  the  window  of  a  Mo- 
diste, she  passes  a  running  glance ;  a  coquettish  little  hat 
of  white  sherd,  trimmed  with  green,  with  a  sprig  of  white 
lillies  within,  excites  half  a  sigh ;  and  as  quick  as  thought 
— the  price  is  imagined — her  stock  run  over — the  old  bonnet 
discussed,  and  on  she  goes ; — there,  she  turns  half  round 
to  look  at  the  lady's  shawl  who  passes — on  again  she 
trips,  now  a  little  pride  in  her  step  ; — she  gives  the  hand- 
kerchief upon  her  shoulders  a  twitch,  that  seems  to  say — 
if  Madame  could  only  arrange  it. 

Trip) — trip — trip  !  go  her  small,  twinkling  feet ! — a 

glance  here,  and  a  glance  there,  and  she  vanishes  round  a 
corner — turning  half  back  as  she  goes  out  of  sight,  to  see 
if,  by  any  possibility,  admiring  eyes  shall  have  followed 
her  motion. 

Here  comes  now  a  puffing  old  woman  of  forty,  seem- 
ing very  anxious  that  no  one  should  see  how  very  red  her 


13}  Fkesh    Gleanings. 

exertions  have  made  her  face,  and  jerking  violently  on 
occasions  at  a  small  white  dog,  which  she  leads  by  a  string. 
She  fancies  a  great  many  more  people  are  looking  at  her 
— (a  common  error  with  women  of  forty),  than  really  are  ; 
she  appears  to  attract  the  notice  of  no  one  save  the  cab- 
drivers,  who  think  she  is  in  heat  for  a  "  fare,"  and  some 
country  women  more  uncouth  than  she,  who  wonder 
what  Madame  paid  for  her  satin  pellerin — and  sundiy 
roguish-looking  boys,  with  caps  very  low  on  their  heads, 
who  watch  anxiously  the  little  dog,  and  the  string  that 
holds  him.  She  is  the  matron  of  some  unpretending 
suburban  house. 

Next  comes  a  stoutish  man  of  five-and-forty,  with  a 
wife  on  one  arm,  and  a  daughter  on  the  other ; — he  has  a 
beard  long  and  dirty ;  one  collar  is  up,  and  the  other  is 
down  ; — he  talks  very  loud  to  his  wife,  who  talks  very 
loud  back ;  and  you  may  hear  plentifully  sprinkled  the 
words — -joli — magnifique — un  miracle. — He  is  fresh  from 
the  Provinces ;  and  it  is  his  first  visit  to  Paris,  and  first  for 
Madame,  and  first  for  the  wondering  Mademoiselle, — who 
can  never  cease  wondering  aloud  at  the  splendid  shops, 
and  of  wondering  to  herself,  at  the  charmans  jeunes  gens. 
Poor  girl !  if  she  stop  in  Paris  long  enough  to  learn  it 
fully,  she  will  perhaps  wonder  still  more,  but  her  wonder 
will  be  full  of  vain,  and  bitter  regrets.  Poor  girl  of  four- 
teen ! it  is  an  age  at  which  your  head  will  turn  in  the 

streets  of  Paris ! 

Following  so  closely,  that  he  almost  raps  their  shoulders 
with  his  tray  of  images,  is  an  Italian  boy,  with  a  face  that 


L  e   P  n  y  s  i  a  u  e    d  e   Paris.  1 39 

has  ripened  to  its  pleasing  brownness,  on  the  rich  banks 
of  Como. 

Now  who  comes  sauntering  along,  with  the  easiest 

air  in  the  world,  and  face  that  could  not  express  a  care  if 
one  were  felt — which  shows  no  earnestness  of  thought  or 
of  endeavor ; — who  looks  as  if  the  most  trying  of  vexa- 
tions would  be  totally  eclipsed  by  the  loss  of  a  suspender 
button,  and  the  most  weighty  afflictions  forgotten  in  the 
irremediable  grief  of  wearing  a  boot  out  of  mode  ]  It  is 
the  true  Parisian  ; — no  matter  if  rich  or  poor, — the  genus 
is  the  same.  His  dress  is  perfection  ; — not  extravagant  or 
outre,  but  so  adjusted,  that  it  seems  made  on  him  piece 
by  piece;  and  he  walks  as  if  locomotion  were  a  mere  sec- 
ondary purpose,  and  the  great  aim  to  give  to  his  dress 
propriety  of  action.  So  he  passes  easily  along  the  Boule- 
vard— the  regular  round  of  his  life. 

Such  make  the  best  population  in  the  world  for  a  des- 
potic government.  Unfortunately,  the  race  is  growing 
with  us  at  home ;  and  there  is  this  difference, — that  while 
under  European  governments,  where  inducements  to  men- 
tal exertion  are  comparatively  limited,  the  fop  is  the  sub- 
ject of  every  good  man's  pity, — with  us,  on  the  contrary, 
he  is  the  worthy  object  of  every  thinking  man's  contempt. 

Another  comes,  who  apes  the  last, — smoking,  and 
flourishing  a  stick ; — his  coat  is  very  well,  and  his  boots 
are  well  enough,  but  ah,  his  hat,  poor  fellow  !  is  a  month 
behind  the  mode  ;  he  must  live  longer  in  Paris,  —  he 
will  perfect  himself  in  time ; — he  is  only  a  year  from  the 
Provinces. 


140  Fresh    Gleanings. 

Here  comes  a  man  worthy  to  be  noted  well.  He  is  ill 
a  blouse,  old  and  dirty — his  whole  dress  slouching  ; — his 
hands  are  clasped  one  in  the  other  behind  his  back ;  his 
cap  hangs  low  over  his  face,  but  you  can  see  by  glimpses 
the  hair  and  eye  of  a  man  of  fifty ;  he  holds  his  head 
down,  and  walks  slowly,  searching  for  what  may  have 
been  dropped  along  the  walk.  Yonder  he  stoops  to  pick 
up — the  remnant  of  a  cigar.  He  raises  his  eye,  as  he 
lifts  his  blouse,  to  drop  it  in  his  pocket ;  but  there  is  no 
expression  of  pleasure  in  his  look.  Sulkily  he  strolls 
on,  and  strolling  he  thinks,  and  thinking  men  unguided  by 
principles  of  justice,  and  ignorant,  are  the  most  dangerous 
of  all. 

He  is  one  of  those  sans-culottes,  who  if  he  had  been 
living  when  Marie  went  sorrowfully  to  her  execution, 
would  have  shouted  like  a  mad  devil.  He  would  be 
foremost  in  a  tumult  of  to-day. 

There  are  few  earnest  faces, — few  intent  upon  present 
employment, — little  of  the  haste  of  an  American  throng. 

The  priests  glide  softly  by,  in  their  long,  black  robes ; 
— the  porters  jostle  on  with  burdens  on  their  heads ; — 
old  men  in  threadbare  coats,  and  with  gold-headed  canes 
pick  their  way  slowly  along; — little  bare-legged  boys  go 
pattering  by,  and  little  girls  in  the  fashions  of  their 
grandmothers ; — and  if  we  follow  them  on  down  the 
great  thoroughfare — through  the  quiet  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
we  shall  see  them  go  trooping  with  the  swarms  of  chil- 
dren, that  play  every  sunny  day  in  the  palace  garden. 

So — 1  used  to  watch  those  eddies,  in  that  current,  of 


Le    Physique    de   Paris.  141 

the  moving  world  of  Paris,  which  sweeps  every  day- 
through  the  Northern  Boulevard.  Day  after  day,  the 
current  moves  on ; — the  same  in  essentials  yesterday,  that 
it  was  to-day,  and  it  will  be  the  same  to-morrow.  Yet 
go  half  a  league  Eastward  upon  that  winding  thorough- 
fare, and  you  have  a  different  company :  rich  dresses  are 
rarer, — loiterers  are  fewer, — book-stalls  are  in  place  of 
shops, — blouses  in  place  of  broadcloth, — beer-shops  in 
place  of  the  brilliant  Cafes. 

Nor  is  this  great  circular  line  of  old  rampart  all : — 
outside  the  Barrier  is  another  line  of  Boulevards,  con- 
centric nearly  with  the  interior,  and  embracing  all  that 
may  be  fairly  called  the  city.  Trees  are  planted  on  it, 
and  beyond  it,  stretch  fields  of  wheat  and  of  vine- 
yards. Upon  this  exterior  Bouvelard — to  the  West — rises 
the  gigantic  Arch,  commemorative  of  Napoleon's  victo- 
ries. From  its  top  you  may  see  a  rich  panorama  of  the 
city  and  the  country  :  straight  down  into  the  Metropolis 
from  its  middle  aperture  stretches  a  street  in  a  wood — 
Les  Champs  Elysees, — and  beyond  it  the  palace  garden, 
— and  beyond  the  garden,  the  palace — Les  Tuileries — 
two  miles  away  from  the  Arch,  with  its  long,  stone 
gallery  pushing  back  upon  the  Quay,  and  fastened  upon 
a  corner  of  the  quadrangular  court  of  the  Louvre. 

To  the  right,  beyond  the  river,  among  trees,  are  the 
monuments  of  Paris  militant — the  Hotel  des  Invalides, 
and  the  Ecole  Militaire,  and  the  broad  Champ  de  Mars, 
where  in  1790  Louis  took  the  oath  of  the  Federation,  and 
which  in  a  famous  month  of  May — 'your  guide  up  the 


142  Fresh    Gleanings. 

Arch  remembers  it  well  —  bristled  with  muskets,  and 
waved  with  tossing  plumes — the  last  great  gathering  of 
the  armies  of  France,  before  Waterloo. 

To  the  left,  is  Mont  Martre  with  low  houses  and  wind 
mills,  in  place  of  temple  to  Roman  Mars — to  the  right 
the  two  towers  of  St.  Sulpice,  its  telegraphic  fingera 
working  orders  to  Cherbourg;  you  can  see  besides,  far 
off  Northward,  the  two  towers  of  St.  Vincent  de  Paul, 
and  in  the  thickest  of  the  city — the  two  towers  of 
Eustache,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  river — the  two 
towers  of  Notre-Dame.  Cropping  out  of  the  houses,  the 
South  side  of  the  stream,  is  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon, — 
built  for  a  church,  but  when  France  was  made  delirious 
by  the  "  hot  spirit  drawn  out  of  the  alembic  of  hell,"* 
transformed  into  a  heathen  temple.  Modem  France 
strikes  between  the  extremes ; — they  have  not  restored 
the  Cross  to  the  cupola,  but  they  have  put  up  an  image 
of  Immortality  ;  Rosseau  and  Voltaire  are  in  the  vaults  ; 
Charity  and  Righteousness  are  in  the  transepts. 

Of  palaces,  you  can  see  the  Bourbon,  where  Napoleon 
passed  his  last  night  of  rule; — you  can  see  the  Royal 
Palace — that  has  been  the  scene  of  so  much  important 
history — a  city  of  open-sided  houses,  and  a  park  with 
flashing  waters  in  the  court.     You  can  distinguish  in  the 

*  "  But  if,  in  the  moment  of  riot,  and  in  a  drunken  delirium  from  the 
hot  spirit  drawn  out  of  the  alembic  of  hell,  which  in  France  is  now 
so  furiously  boiling,  we  should  uncover  our  nakedness  by  throwing 
otF  that  Christian  religion  which  has  hitherto  been  our  boast  and 
tQpmfort,  Sic."—r'Bnrke's  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  Franc*. 


Le    Physique    de    Paris.  143 

distance  North  and  East  the  classic  Bourse,  and  the  still 
more  classic  Madaleine; — you  can  see  the  Column  of  the 
Chatelet,  and  the  Column  of  the  Angel,  and  the  Column 
of  Napoleon.  You  can  see  the  clean  Quays  crowd- 
ed,—  the  winding  strip  of  the  Northern  Boulevard, 
dotted  with  ten  thousand  moving  things, — half-darkened 
with  shadows  of  princely  houses,  half-bright  with  sun- 
light ; — you  see  a  wilderness  of  roofs  sharp  and  high, — 
tile  roofs  red — metal  roofs  shining,  and  glass  glittering ; — 
and  the  yellow  flood  of  the  Seine,  you  see  sweltering 
along  through  the  middle  of  the  whole, — it  would  be 
rich  in  tales  if  it  would  speak,  for  scarce  a  day  passes, 
but  it  floats  up  the  body  of  a  man  : — Pont  Neuf  parts 
the  waters  after  they  have  swept  the  base  of  Notre- 
Dame,  and  circled  the  two  islands  of  St.  Louis  and  La 
Cite  ; — straight  on  toward  you  it  rolls  its  yellow  tide,- — 
gurgling  through  the  wood  rafts  of  Lorraine,  and  rocking 
the  wine  barges  of  Bourgogne ; — it  roars  under  the  feet 
of  the  thousand  walkers  upon  the  Pont  Royal — on  one 
side,  it  splashes  the  foot  of  the  Palace  of  the  Deputies, — 
on  the  other,  it  splashes  the  foot  of  the  Palace  of  the 
King; — it  bears  away  to  your  right — Westward,  over 
the  tops  of  the  Wood  of  Boulogne, — then  pushes  North, 
straight  through  the  city  of  St.  Denis; — away  again 
Westward,  under  the  full  glow  of  the  sun,  it  leaves  your 
straining  eye, — a  white  streak  in  the  meadows  of  St. 
Germain. 

Such    is    that    new    Paris, — the    brilliant    Paris, — the 
Capital  of  Europe,  which  the  traveler  brings  back  in 


1 44  Fresh    Gleanings. 

his  mind  ;— and  where,  then,  is  that  old  Paiis, — dirty 
Paris, — narrow-streeted,  dim-lighted,  mysterious  Paris, 
which  the  traveler  hugged  to  hi-3  thought,  when  first 
he  turned  his  glad  steps  thitherward  1 

Alas,  it  is  going  by!  The  old  houses  of  the  Island 
are  tottering  to  their  fall.  The  narrow  streets  are  thrown 
two  in  one,  and  the  sunlight  comes  down  on  the  pave- 
ment, that  never  saw  it  before.  They  have  brushed 
up  the  Sorbonne,  and  torn  away  the  old  lumbering  pal- 
ace of  the  bishops  behind  Notre-Dame,  and  put  a  park 
and  fountain  in  its  place.  The  busy  hands  of  the  Mu- 
nicipality are  at  work  in  every  quarter,  widening,  and 
lighting,  and  paving.  But  thank  Heaven  1  there  is  some- 
thing left  for  day-dreams  yet ! 

There  is  the  Pont  Neuf,  with  a  grizzled  head  at  each 
arch,  and  each  has  its  story  to  tell.  There -is  the  Palais 
de  Justice,  throwing  the  gloomy  shadows  of  its  towers 
over  the  narrow  Quay,  and  down  upon  the  foul  waters. 
I  have  loitered  many  a  time  under  the  heavy  arch  of  its 
Conciergerie,  and  looked  trembling  through  the  iron  grat- 
ing, where  they  counted  over  the  chalked  cells,  and 
by  which,  went  out  each  morning  the  cart-loads  of  vic- 
tims to  the  knife.  The  street  is  narrow  between  its 
walls  and  the  Seine,  and  quiet.  Leaning  back  upon 
the  gray  parapet,  you  can  see  the  little  window,  out 
of  which  Marie  Antoinette  looked  for  two  long  months 
over  the  stormy  city ;  there  is  the  cell  too  of  Robespierre, 
and  of  the  murderer  of  the  Due  de  Berri.  Along  the 
very  Quay — the  paving-stoues   have   not  been   renewed 


Le   PiiYsiauE   de   Paris.  145 

since  1815 — passed  Lavalette  in  the  dress  of  his  young 
wife,  who  staid  in  the  prison  behind,  so  long,"she  became 
a  maniac* 

There  are  remnants  of  narrow  streets  still  left  around  it 
— and  by  the  Sorbonne,  with  gloomy  houses,  and  gloomy- 
looking  people,  which,  if  your  fancy  be  ripened  with 
a  few  hap-hazard  recollections,  will  prove  as  rich  in 
tragic  story,  as  the  murmurs  of  the  fabled  Cocytus. 
Indeed,  it  is  those  recollections — floating  like  summer 
clouds,  over  the  mind,  that  will  make  an  old  city  start 
from  the  new ;  and  if  in  some  such  dim  street  as  I 
have  spoken  of,  or  on  the  Pont  Neuf  itself,  or  under  the 
shadow  of  Notre-Dame,  you  can  seize  upon  some  kin- 
dred recollection,  and  bind  it  to  your  brain,  you  will  find 
your  brain  growing  hot  under  the  pressure,  and  a  rich 
world  of  visions  starting  to  your  earnest  gaze. 

Stand,  if  you  will,  under  one  of  the  trees  near 

the  Place  de  la  Bastille :  —  build  up  the  old,  frowning, 
terrible  towers  again,  and  if  you  have  but  a  spark  of 
imagination,  you  shall  see  the  old,  white-haired  man,t  set 
free  by  the  clemency  of  Louis  XVI.,  groping  over  the 

*  The  story  of  Lavalette's  escape  will  be  familiar  to  every  histori- 
cal reader.  He  was  the  husband  of  Mademoiselle  Beauharnais, 
niece  of  Josephine ; — was  aid-de-camp  to  Napoleon,  made  Count,  and 
commander  of  the  legion  of  honor; — in  the  month  of  November,  '15, 
he  was  tried  and  condemned  to  death,  but  escaped  in  the  dress  of 
Madame  Lavalette ;  he  remained  concealed  a  fortnight  in  the  city, 
and  afterward  made  his  way  out  of  the  kingdom  in  safety. 

t  Vid.  Tableau  de  Paris,  par  Mercier. 
G 


14G  Fresh   Gleanings. 

dra \v -bridge,  —  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  at 
length  breaking  forth  in  entreaty  that  he  may  go  back 
to  his  dungeon. 

Or  you  shall  see  the  unknown  prisoner  of  Fou- 

quet,  in  his  black  mask,  through  the  grating  j  you  shall 
see  him  write  upon  his  silver  plate,  and  throw  it  in 
the  ditch  at  the  foot  of  the  tower ;  you  shall  see  the  poor 
peasant-finder  of  the  plate,  trembling  before  the  governor 
of  the  prison,  and  murdered  because  he  had  read  the 
writing ;  you  shall  see  the  physician  come  to  serve  the 
Unknown,  and  the  priest  to  shrive  him,  but  never  is  the 
black  mask  lifted ;  he  is  served  like  a  prince,  but  can  not 
uncover  his  face  ;  he  dies,  and  his  cell  is  torn  in  frag- 
ments, that  no  morsel  may  reveal  the  secret  of  the  Iron 
Mask* 

Or  you  may  conjure  up  the  presence  of  the  old 

Abbe  Leseur,  whose  story  is  so  simple,  it  must  be  true ; 
—at  least  you  shall  judge  for  yourself. 


An  Old   Chronicle   of  the  City. 

JT1HE  Abbe  Leseur  lived  in  the  same  century  with 

-*-      the  sad-fated   Maria  Henrietta,  —  the  extolled  of 

Bossuet, — the  beautiful  sister  of  Louis  XIII.     He  was 

*  Hist,  du  Masque  de  Fer,  par  Delortj  also  Voltaire's  Age  of 
Louis  XIV..  and  Philosop)  .  Diet.,  Art.  Anecdotes. 


An  Old  Chronicle  of  the  City.      147 

curate  of  the  Church  of  St.  Mederic,  or  as  it  is  now 
called,  St.  Mery, — which  stands  upon  the  corner  where 
the  dirty  Rue  des  Lombards  crosses  the  Rue  St.  Martin 
— a  corner  around  which  more  blood  was  spilled  in  the 
days  of  the  last  Revolution  than  in  almost  any  other 
quarter  of  Paris.  It  is  a  queer  old  Gothic  building,  with 
rich  tracery  about  its  windows,  but  the  walls  are  stained 
with  the  damps  of  three  or  four  centuries,  and  the  out- 
side is  heavily  scarred  by  the  bullets  that  flew  around 
it  in  1832. 

The  people  who  say  mass  at  St.  Mery  to-day,  are 
of  the  vilest  population  of  the  city;  the  beggars  who 
loiter  at  its  steps  are  the  most  wretched  of  beggars ;  and 
the  priests  who  assist  at  the  worship  at  St.  Mery,  are,  if 
one  may  judge  from  their  looks,  the  worst  of  priests. 

It  was  different  in  the  time  of  the  good  Abbe  Leseur; 
for  then  there  were  rich  houses  even  along  the  Rue  St. 
Antoine ;  and  noble  lords  and  ladies  came  to  say  their 
prayers  at  the  shrine  of  St.  Mederic. 

The  Abbe  was  dozing  one  evening,  for  he  had  stayed 
later  than  was  his  wont,  in  his  confessional  box,  when  ho 
was  roused  by  the  rustling  of  a  dress  just  beside  him ; — 
turning  his  eyes  to  the  grating  through  which  he  had  lis- 
tened to  the  confessions  of  his  back-slidden  people,  he 
saw  the  delicate,  jewelled  hand  of  a  lady  clinging  to  the 
bars.  The  Abbe  put  his  head  nearer  the  grating  to  see 
who  was  the  owner  of  the  fair  hand.  He  saw  a  light, 
graceful  form,  and  presently  met  the  eyes,  bending  ear- 
nestly on  his  own,  of  the  lovely  Mademoiselle  d'Estral, 


148  Fresh   Gleanings. 

daughter  of  the  powerful  Baron  d'Estral, — she  who  had 
been  long  the  sweetest  lamb  of  his  flock. 

Now  it  had  been  some  time  rumored  in  the  city, — and 
the  rumor  had  come  to  the  Abbe's  ears, — for  there  were 
gossips  then,  as  there  are  gossips  now, — that  the  beauti- 
ful Isabel  d'Estral  was  bound  by  her  father's  oath,  to 
marry  the  Chevalier  Verhais. 

—  Methinks  it  is  somewhat  late  for  Mademoiselle — said 
the  Abbe — what  can  she  wish  at  such  an  hour  1 

—  Your  blessing,  Father, — said  the  girl,  firmly. 

—  It  is  always  yours,  child ;  but  tell  me  first  why  at 
this  hour  ! 

—  I  want  your  blessing ;  there  is  no  time  for  words  ; — 
why,  I  dare  not  tell. 

—  Then,  child,  I  dare  not  bless  you. 

—  And  you  will  not  1 

—  I  can  not — and  the  Abbe  heard  the  step  of  Made- 
moiselle moving  from  the  confessional.  He  opened  his 
box,  and  overtaking  her  before  she  had  reached  the  door, 
drew  her  into  one  of  the  side  chapels,  which  may  yet  be 
seen  each  side  the  great  aisle  of  St.  Mery. 

— Mademoiselle, — said  the  Abbe  solemnly, — you  have 
some  strange  purpose  in  your  thought ; — is  it  right  that 
it  stay  unrevealed  1 

The  form  of  the  daughter  of  d'Estral  trembled  undei 
the  touch  of  the  Abbe. 

—  Is  ii  strange  I  want  your  blessing,  good  Father, 
when  to-night  is  my  last  on  earth  1 

The  Abbe  trembled  in  his  turn  : — It  can  not  be, 


An   Old   Chronicle   op   the   City.    149 

—  It  must   be,  —  said  the  d'Estral. — You   know  the 
Baron, — that  he  does  not  yield: 

—  And  you  will  not  obey,  child  ? 

—  Never ; — you  know  the  Chevalier  Verhais — why  do 
you  ask] 

—  And  the  nuptials  1 

—  Are  fixed  for  to-morrow  night. 

—  Child,  I  can  serve  you. 

—  With  your  blessing,  Father. 

—  Nay — not  yet:  I  will  conceal  you  where  not  even 
the  powerful  Baron  can  find  you. 

Mademoiselle  hesitated  a  moment,  —  then  lifted  the 
hand  of  the  Abbe  to  her  lips. 

The  Abbe  threw  his  cloak  over  her,  and  they  passed 
out. 

Along  the  dim  streets — there  were  no  lamps  then — 
they  passed,  keeping  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  houses. 
Many  people  met  them  ;  one  only  had  known  or  saluted 
the  Abbe.  None  knew,  or  seemed  to  know  Mademoi- 
selle. 

Turning  into  a  dark  by-way,  out  of  what  is  now  the 
Rue  St.  Antoine,  they  stole  cautiously  in  the  direction  of 
the  frowning  towers  of  the  Bastille.  At  length  the  Abbe 
stcj  ped  at  a  low  door  in  an  abutment  of  the  outer  walls, 
and  leading  his  charge  through  a  low,  dark  passage,  left 
her  in  a  little  room  at  the  end,  in  the  guardianship  of  an 
old  woman — his  foster-mother. 

Two  days  thereafter,  it  was  noised  through  the  city 
that  Isabel  d'Estral,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  Baron 


150  Fresh    Gleanings. 

of  the  name,  had  suddenly  disappeared  the  night  before 
the  one  set  for  her  marriage,  with  the  Chevalier  Verhais. 
The  Baron  had  made  for  many  days  unsuccessful  search, 
and  vain  inquiries  in  every  direction : — he  had  offered  re- 
wards for  the  smallest  tidings,  and  had  given  descriptions 
of  the  person  of  his  daughter.  At  length  there  appeared 
one  who  had  seen  a  female  figure,  of  the  form  described, 
passing  along  the  Rue  St.  Antoine  at  a  late  hour,  on  the 
day  upon  which  Mademoiselle  disappeared ;  and  he  fur- 
ther testified  that  she  was  in  company  with  a  man  in  the 
dress  of  a  priest.  Another  gave  testimony  to  having  seen 
the  curate  of  the  church  of  St.  Mederic  on  the  evening  in 
question,  and  in  company  with  a  female ;  and  what  was 
doubly  suspicious,  the  curate  himself  had  been  recognized 
in  the  Rue  St.  Antoine.  None  had  ever  before  suspected 
the  Abbe  Leseur  of  wrong  doing.  The  archbishop  sum- 
moned him  to  appear  at  N6tre-Dame. 

Two  persons  appeared,  who  swore  to  the  fact  of  seeing 
the  Abbe  Leseur  walking  with  a  lady  in  the  Rue  St. 
Antoine,  upon  the  evening  of  the  disappearance  of  the 
daughter  of  the  Baron.  There  was,  however,  no  evidence 
to  identify  this  lady  with  Mademoiselle  d'Estral.  Still- 
to  the  surprise  of  all,  the  Abbe  frankly  avowed  that  the 
person  with  whom  he  had  been  seen,  was  none  other 
than  the  missing  daughter  of  the  Baron.  He  would  tell 
nothing  more. 

The  Baron  was  powerful  both  at  court,  and  in  the  old 
palace  of  Notre-Dame.  The  next  day  the  Abbe  Leseur 
was  shown  his  dungeon  in  the  Bastille.     At  intervals  for  a 


An   Old   Chronicle   op   the   City.  151 

month,  he  was  urged  to  reveal  the  hiding-place  of  Made- 
moiselle, but  he  steadily  refused  every  solicitation. 

A  year  passed  away,  and  the  Abbe  was  still  in  his  dun- 
geon; a  new  curate  sat  in  the  confessional  stall  of  St. 
Mederic.  Meantime,  the  Chevalier  Verhais  had  gone 
out  of  the  kingdom — still  nothing  was  heard  of  the  lost 
Isabel. 

Three  years  after,  and  there  had  been  great  changes  at 
the  court ;  the  Baron  was  no  longer  powerful ;  a  new 
governor  was  set  over  the  Bastille,  and  it  was  crowded 
with  prisoners  of  state.  Both  the  lost  daughter  of  d'Es- 
tral,  and  the  Abbe  were  nearly  forgotten. 

A  lad  came  one  evening,  and  demanded  to  see  the  old 
Abbe  Leseur ;  and  when  the  turnkey  came  to  close  the 
cells  for  the  night,  he  asked  to  stop  with  the  Abbe. 
There  was  little  care  of  such  a  prisoner,  and  the  lad  stay- 
ed in  the  cell. 

An  hour  after,  when  it  had  grown  dark,  the  turnkeys 
in  the  great  hall  of  the  Castle  were  startled  by  a  piercing 
shriek.  They  searched  the  cells,  and  the  dungeon  of  the 
Abbe  was  found  empty ;  but  out  of  the  window  was  hang- 
ing a  broken  ladder  of  ropes,  and  below,  there  appeared 
something  moving  upon  the  edge  of  the  fosse. 

They  ran  down  with  torches ;  they  found  the  poor 
Abbe  crushed  to  death  by  the  fall.  The  lad  had  just 
strength  enough  to  say  the  curate  was  innocent,  and 
fainted.  They  tore  open  his  doublet,  to  give  him  air, 
and  found  to  their  astonishment,  that  it  was  a  woman. 
They  put  the  torches  close  to  her  face,  and  one  of  the 


152  Fresh    Gleanings. 

bystanders  cried  out  that  it  was  Mademoiselle  d'Estral. 
The  poor  girl  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound, — seemed  re- 
calling her  senses, — uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  fell  dead 
upon  the  body  of  the  Abbe. 

The  remains  of  the  poor  Abbe"  were  buried  in  the  clois- 
ters of  the  old  palace,  that  stood  behind  Notre-Dame  : 
and  if  it  is  not  removed — you  can  still  read  upon  a  slab 
in  the  pavement  of  the  church  of  St.  Mery,  the  name  of 
Isabel  d'Estral. 


&l)e  Countrj)  totuit©  ano  %xms 
of  JTrcmce. 


THE    COUNTRY    TOWNS    AND 
INNS    OF    FRANCE. 


Gazetteers. 


r  ALWAYS  felt  a  strong  curiosity  to  learn  something 
-*-  about  those  great  inland  cities  of  France,  which  main- 
tain a  somewhat  doubtful,  and  precarious  existence  in  the 
public  mind,  by  being  set  down  in  the  books  of  Geogra- 
phers. I  had  been  whipped  to  learn  in  my  old  school  a 
long  paragraph  about  Lyons,  I  dare  say,  ten  times  over ; 
and  yet,  when  bowling  down  the  mountains  in  a  crazy 
Diligence,  at  midnight,  between  Geneva  and  the  city  of 
silks,  I  could  not  tell  a  syllable  about  it. 

I  had  a  half  memory  of  its  having  been  the  scene  of 
dreadful  murders  in  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  and  shud- 
dered at  thought  of  its  bloody  and  dark  streets ;  I  knew 
the  richest  silks  of  the  West  came  from  Lyons,  and  so, 
thought  it  must  be  mil  of  silk-shops  and  factories;  I  re- 
membered how  Tristram  Shandy  had  broke  down  his 
chaise,  and  gone  "  higgledy-piggledy"  in  a  cart  into  Lyons, 


156  Fresh  Gleanings. 

and  so,  I  thought  the  roads  must  be  very  rough  around 
the  city ;  my  old  tutor,  in  his  explication  of  the  text  of 
Tacitus,*  had  given  me  the  idea  that  Lyons  was  a  cold 
city,  far  away  to  the  North  ;  and  as  for  the  tourists,  if  I 
had  undertaken  to  entertain  upon  the  midnight  in  ques- 
tion, one  half  of  the  contradictory  notions  which  they  had 
put  in  my  mind  from  time  to  time,  my  thoughts  about 
Lyons,  would  have  been  more  "  higgledy-piggledy"  than 
poor  Sterne's  post-chaise,  and  worse  twisted  than  his 
papers,  in  the  curls  of  the  chaise-vamper's  wife. 

I  had  predeteraiined  to  disregard  all  that  the  tourists 
had  written,  and  to  find  things  (a  very  needless  resolve), 
quite  the  opposite  of  what  they  had  been  described  to  be. 

I  nudged  F ,  who  was  dozing  in  the  corner  under 

the  lantern,  and  took  his  pocket-gazetteer,  and  turning  to 
the  place  where  we  were  going,  read :  "  Lyons  is  the 
second  city  of  France.  It  is  situated  on  the  Rhone,  near 
its  junction  with  the  Saone ;  it  has  large  silk-manufacto- 
ries, and  a  venerable  old  Cathedral."  We  shall  see — 
thought  I.  What  a  help  to  the  digestion  of  previously  ac- 
quired information,  is  the  simple  seeing  for  one's  self! 

The  whole  budget  of  history,  and  of  fiction — wheth- 
er of  travel-writers  or  romancers,  and  of  Geographers, 
fades  into  insignificance  in  comparison  with  one  glance 
of  an  actual  observer.  Particular  positions  and  events 
may  be  vivid  to   the  mind,  but  they  can  tell  no  story 

*  Cohortem  duodevicesiroam  I*ugduui,  solitia  sibi  hybernis,  relin- 
qui  placuit. —  Tacitus,  Lib.  I.,  Cap,  64, 


Inns  and  Cafes  of  Lyons.    157 

of  noise  and  presence — of  rivers  rushing,  wheels  rolling, 
6un  shining,  voices  talking.  And  why  can  not  these  all 
be  so  pictured,  that  a  man  might  wake  up  in  a  far  off 
city,  as  if  it  were  an  old  story  1  Simply  because  each  ob- 
server has  his  individualities,  which  it  is  as  impossible  to 
convey  to  the  mind  of  another  by  writing,  as  it  would 
have  been  for  me  to  have  kept  awake  that  night  in  the 
Diligence,  after  reading  so  sleepy  a  paragraph  as  that  in 
the  Gazetteer. 

I  dreamed  of  silk  cravats,  and  gaping  cut  throats,  until 

F nudged  me  in  his  turn  at  two  in  the  morning,  and 

said  we  had  got  to  Lyons. 


Inns  and  Cafes  of  Lyons. 

"I  TOTEL  du  Nord — I  say  to  the  porter  who  has 

*  r,'  my  luggage  on  his  back,  and  away  I  follow 
through  the  dim  and  silent  streets  to  where,  opposite  the 
Grand  Theatre  with  its  arcades  running  round  it,  our  fac- 
teur  stops,  and  tinkles  a  bell  at  the  heavy  doors,  opening 
into  the  court  of  the  Hotel  du  Nord.  At  first  sight,  it  seems 
not  unlike  some  of  the  larger  and  more  substantial  inns 
which  may  be  met  with  in  some  of  our  inland  towns,  but 
in  a  street  narrower  and  dimmer  by  half  than  are  Ameri- 
can streets.  Up  four  pair  of  stairs  the  waiter  conducts 
me,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  to  a  snug  bedroom,  where,  in  ten 
minutes,  I  am  fast  asleep.     The  porter  goes  off  satisfied 


158  Fresh    Glganmngs. 

with  a  third  of  his  demand,  and  I  have  just  fallen  to 
dreaming  again,  the  old  Diligence  dreams,  when  the  noise 
of  the  rising  world,  and  the  roll  of  cars  over  the  heavy- 
stone  pavement  below,  shakes  me  into  broad  wakefulness. 

A  fat  lady  in  the  office  Hoes  the  honors  of  the  house. 
Various  companies  are  seated  about  the  salon,  which  in 
most  of  the  Provincial  hotels,  serves  also  as  breakfast- 
room.  Yet  altogether,  the  house  has  a  city  air,  and  might 
be — saving  the  language,  with  its  mm  Dieus,  up  the  five 
pair  of  stairs,  and  the  waxen  brick  floors,  and  the  open 
court,  a  New- York  hotel,  dropped  down  within  stone's 
throw  of  the  bounding  Rhone. 

White-aproned  waiters,  like  cats,  are  stealing  over  the 
stone  stair-cases,  and  a  fox-eyed  valet  is  on  the  look-out 
for  you  at  the  door.  There  are  very  few  towns  in  France, 
in  which  the  stranger  is  not  detected,  and  made  game  of. 
But  what,  pray,  is  there  worth  seeing,  that  an  eye,  though 
undirected  can  not  see,  even  in  so  great  a  city  as  Lyons  1 

Besides,  there  was  always  to  me  an  infinite  deal  of  sat- 
isfaction in  strolling  through  a  strange  place,  led  only  by 
my  own  vagaries ; — in  threading  long  labyrinths  of  lanes, 
to  break  on  a  sudden  upon  some  strange  sight ; — in  losing 
myself — as  in  the  old  woods  at  home,  in  the  bewilder- 
ment that  my  curiosity  and  ignorance  always  led  me  into. 

What  on  earth  matters  it,  if  you  do  not  see  this  queer 
bit  of  mechanism,  or  some  old  fragment  of  armor,  or 
some  rich  mercer's  shop,  that  your  valet  would  lead  you 
to  1 — do  you  not  get  a  better  idea  of  the  city — its  houses, 
noise,  habits,  position  and  extent,  in  tramping  off  witli 


Inns   and   Cafes  of   Lyons.         159 

your  map  and  guide-book,  as  you  would  tramp  over 
fields  at  home, — lost  in  your  own  dreams  of  comparison 
and  analysis  1 

You  know,  for  instance,  there  are  bridges  over  the 
river  worth  the  seeing,  and  with  no  guide  but  the 
roar  of  the  water,  you  push  your  way  down  toward 
the  long,  stately  Quay.  The  heavy,  old  arches  of  stone 
wallowing  out  of  the  stream,  contrast  strongly  with  the 
graceful  curves  of  the  long  bridges  of  iron.  Steamers 
and  barges  breast  to  breast,  three  deep,  lie  along  the# 
margin  of  the  river,  and  huge  piles  of  merchandise  are 
packed  upon  the  Quay. 

The  stately  line  of  the  great  hospital,  the  H6tel  Dieu, 
stretches  near  half  a  mile,  with  heavy  stone  front  along 
the  river.  Opposite  is  a  busy  suburb,  which  has  won 
itself  a  name,  and  numbers  population  enough  for  a  city, 
were  it  not  in  the  shadow  of  the  greater  one  of  Lyons. 

You  would  have  hardly  looked — if  you  had  no  more 
correct  notions  than  I — for  such  tall,  substantial  ware- 
houses, along  such  a  noisy  Quay,  deep  in  the  country, 
after  so  many  days  of  hard  and  heavy  Diligence-riding. 
Yet  here  are  customs-men  with  their  swords  hung  to 
their  belts,  marching  along  the  walks,  as  if  they  were 
veritable  coast-guard,  and  wore  the  insignia  of  govern- 
ment, instead  of  the  authority  of  the  city  —  and  were 
in  search  of  smugglers,  instead  of  levying  the  Octroi  dues 
upon  the  corn  and  wine  of  the  Saone,  and  the  olives  of 
Provence.  Soldiers  too,  are  visible  at  every  turn,  for 
the  people  of  Lyons  have  oyer  been  disposed  to  question 


160  Fresh   Gleanings. 

earliest  the  lights  of  the  constituted  authorities ;  and  the 
liberal  government  of  the  charter,  reckon  nothing  better 
preventive  of  the  ill  effects  of  this  prying  disposition,  than 
a  full  supply  of  the  small  men  in  crimson  breeches,  who 
wear  straight,  sharp  swords  upon  their  thigh,  and  man 
the  great  fortification  upon  the  hill  above  the  city,  which 
points  its  guns  into  every  alley,  and  street. 

There  is  more  earnestness  in  faces  in  this  town  of 
Lyons,  than  one  sees  upon  the  Boulevards — as  if  there 
was  something  in  the  world  to  do,  beside  searching  for 
amusement.  There  is  a  half  English,  business-look  graft- 
ed upon  careless  French  habit  of  life ;  and  blouse,  and 
broad-cloth,  both  push  by  you  in  the  street,  as  if  each 
was  earning  the  dinner  of  the  day.  But  the  blouse  has 
not  the  grace  of  the  Paris  blouse ; — nor  has  the  broad- 
cloth the  grace  of  the  Paris  broad-cloth.  Both  have 
a  second-rate  air;  and  they  seem  to  wear  a  con- 
sciousness about  them  of  being  second-rate ; — whereas 
your  Parisian,  whether  he  be  boot-black  to  a  coal 
seller  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Denis,  or  tailor  in  ordi- 
nary to  the  Count  de  Paris,  feels  quite  assured  that 
nothing  can  possibly  be  finer  in  its  way,  than  his  blouse, 
or  his  coat.  Even  the  porter  can  not  shoulder  a  trunk 
like  the  Paris  porter;  the  waiter  can  not  receive  you 
with  half  the  grace  of  a  Paris  waiter ;  and  the  soi-disant 
Grisettes,  who  are  stirring  in  the  streets,  are  as  much 
inferior  to  those  of  the  Rue  Vivienne,  in  carriage  and 
air,  as  Vulcan  would  have  been  inferior  to  Ganymede, 
as  cup-bearer  to  Jove.     Even  the  horses   in   the   cabs 


inns   and   Cafes   of    Lyons.         1G1 

have  a  dog-trot  sort  of  jog,  that  would  not  at  all  be 
countenanced  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix ;  and  carters  shout 
to  their  mules  in  such  villain  patois  Lyonnais,  as  would 
shock  the  ear  of  the  cavalry  grooms  at  the  School  Mili- 
taire. 

Yet  all  these  have  the  good  sense  to  perceive  their 
short  comings ;  and  nothing  is  more  the  object  of  their 
ambition  than  to  approach  near  as  may  be,  to  the  forms 
and  characteristics  of  the  beautiful  City.  If  a  carman 
upon  the  quay  of  the  Rhone,  or  the  Saone, — which  romps 
through  the  other  side  of  the  city,  could  crack  his  whip 
with  the  air  and  gesture  of  the  Paris  postman,  he  would 
be  very  sure  to  achieve  all  the  honors  of  his  profession. 
And  if  a  Lyonnaise  milliner  woman  could  hang  her 
shawl,  or  arrange  it  in  her  window,  like  those  of  the 
Place  Vendome,  or  Lucy  Hoquet,  her  bonnets  would 
be  the  rage  of  all  the  daughters  of  all  the  silk  mercers  of 
Lyons. 

They  have  Paris  Cafes  at  Lyons, — not  indeed,  arranged 
with  all  the  splendor  of  the  best  of  the  capital ;  but  out 
of  it,  you  will  find  no  better,  except  perhaps,  at  Mar- 
seilles. Here  you  will  find  the  same  general  features  that 
characterize  the  Paris  Cafe ;  in  matters  of  commercial 
transaction,  perhaps  the  Exchange  overrules  the  Cafe ; 
and  in  military  affairs,  probably  the  junto  of  the  Caserne 
would  supersede  the  discussions  at  breakfast;  but  yet, 
I  am  quite  assured,  that  the  most  earnest  thinking 
here,  as  in  nearly  every  town  of  France,  is  done  at  the 
Cafe. 


1 G2  Fresh    Gleanings. 

The  society  of  the  Lyons  Cafes  is  not  so  homogeneous, 
as  in  their  types  of  Paris.  Here,  blouses  mingle  more 
with  the  red  ribbon  of  the  legion  of  honor ;  and  a  couple 
of  workmen  may  be  luxuriating  at  one  table  over  a 
bottle  of  Strasburg  beer,  while  at  another  a  young 
merchant  may  be  treating  his  military  friend  in  the  blue 
frock  coat,  and  everlasting  crimson  pantaloons,  to  a  pint 
of  sparkling  St.  Peray. 

The  Cafe  too,  does  not  preserve  so  strictly  its  generic 
character,  and  half  merges  into  the  Restaurant.  At  any 
rate,  I  remember  seeing  the  marble  slabs  covered  with 
napkins  at  five,  and  stout  men  with  towels  under  their 
chins,  eating  stewed  duck  and  peas.  And  later  in  the 
evening,  when  I  have  dropped  into  the  bright-lighted 
Cafe,  just  on  the  quay  from  which  the  Pepin  steamer 
takes  its  departure  for  Avignon,  I  have  seen  strong  meat 
on  half  the  tables. 

As  there  is  more  work  done  in  a  Provincial  city,  so 
we  may  safely  presume  there  is  more  eating  done :  my 
own  observation  confirms  the  truth.  So  it  is  that  the 
breakfast  comes  earlier,  and  those  who  loiter  till  twelve 
in  a  Lyons  Cafe,  are  either  strangers  or  playactors,  or 
lieutenants  taking  a  dose  of  absinthe,  or  workmen 
dropped  in  for  a  cup  of  beer,  or  some  of  those  young- 
sters, who  may  be  found  in  every  town  of  France,  who 
sustain  a  large  reputation  with  tailors  and  shop-girls,  by 
following,  closely  as  their  means  will  allow,  the  very 
worst  of  Pans  habits. 

The  coffee  itself  is  shi.  rt,  as  every  where  else,  of  Paris 


Inns    and   Cafes    of    Lyons.  1C3 

excellence;  but  the  nice  mutton  chops  are  done  to  a 
charm,  and  there  is  so  much  of  broad  country  about 
you, — to  say  nothing  of  the  smell  of  the  great  land- water- 
ing Rhone  at  the  door,  that  you  feel  sure  of  eating  the 
healthy  growth  of  the  earth. 

The  chief  of  the  Paris  Journals  may  be  found  too  in 
the  Lyons  Cafe; — and  what  aliment  are  they  to  poor 
Provincials  !  It  were  as  well  to  deprive  them  of  the 
fresh  air  of  heaven,  as  to  deny  them  such  food  : — even 
the  garcons  would  pine  under  the  bereavement.  The 
spiritless  Provincial  journals  are  but  faint  echoes  of 
detached  paragraphs  from  the  capital;  they  aid  the 
digestion  of  the  others,  not  from  a  stimulus  supplied,  but 
rather  as  a  diluent  of  the  exciting  topics  of  the  city. 
Nothing  but  local  accidents,  and  the  yearly  report  of  the 
mulberry  crop  could  ever  give  interest  to  a  journal  of 
Lyons.  In  consequence  they  are  few  and  read  rarely. 
Still  the  Provincial  editor  is  always  one  of  the  great  men 
of  the  town ;  but  newspaper  editing  is  on  a  very  different 
footing,  as  regards  public  estimation,  in  France,  from 
that  in  America.  And  in  passing,  I  may  remark  further, 
that  while  our  institutions  are  such,  from  their  liberality, 
as  ought  to  render  the  public  journal  one  of  the  most 
powerful  means  of  influencing  the  popular  mind,  and  as 
such,  worthy  of  the  highest  consideration,  in  view  of  the 
opinions  promulgated,  and  the  character  of  the  writers, 
yet  there  seems  to  be  no  country,  in  which  men  are  less 
willing  to  give  it  praise  for  high  conduct,  or  reproach  for 
what  is  base. 


104  .tresh    Gleanings. 

The  restaurants  of  such  a  city  are  not  far  behind  those 
of  Paris,  except  in  size  and  arrangements.  Lyons,  like 
Paris,  has  its  aristocratic  dinner-places,  and  its  two-franc 
tables,  and  its  ten-sou  chop-houses.  In  none,  however,  is 
any  thing  seen  illustrative  of  French  habitude,  but  is  seen 
better  at  Paris. 

As  in  the  Cafes,  so  you  will  find  larger  eaters  in  the 
Restaurants  of  the  provinces ;  and  the  preponderance  of 
stewed  fillets  and  roast  meats,  over  fries  and  confits,  is 
greater  than  at  even  the  Grand  Vatel.  You  will  find 
too,  that  many  of  the  Paris  dishes,  which  appear  upon 
the  bill  of  the  day  are  unfortunately  consumed ;  but  if 
you  order  them,  you  will  be  sure  of  the  compassionate 
regards  of  the  old  widow  lady  sitting  next  table  to  you 
with  three  blooming  daughters;  for  if  a  stranger  but 
smack  of  Paris  in  ever  so  slight  a  degree,  he  is  looked 
upon  in  every  corner  of  France,  as  one  of  the  fortunate 
beings  of  the  earth. 

It  is  presumed, — nay,  it  is  never  even  questioned, — by 
a  thorough-souled  Frenchman,  especially  such  as  have 
never  journeyed  up  to  Paris,  that  whoever  has  visited  la 
belle  ville  has  reached  the  acme  of  all  worldly  pleasures ; 
— that  every  other  city,  and  the  language  of  every  other, 
are  barbarous  in  the  comparison.  A  Paris  lover  would 
break  as  many  hearts  in  the  Provinces,  as  a  Pans 
advocate  would  write  codicils,  or  a  Paris  cobbler  make 
shoes.  None  harbor  the  hallucination  so  entirely  as  the 
women  of  the  Provinces, — hint  only  that  they  have  the 
air  of  Parisians,  and  you  make  friends  of  shrewish  land- 


Snows   of   Lyons.  165 

lailies,  and  quizzing  shop-girls ; — though  their  friendship, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  no  guarantee  against  being  cheated 
by  both. 


Shows   op   Lyons. 

FT  would  be  very  hard  if  Lyons  had  not  its  share  of 
•*-  those  sights,  which  draw  the  great  world  of  lookers- 
on, — who  travel  to  see  the  outside  and  inside  of  churches, 
and  palaces,  but  who  would  never  think  of  walking  out 
of  their  hotel  at  dinner-time,  to  try  a  meal  in  such  snug 
restaurants,  as  may  be  found  on  the  square  by  the  Hotel 
de  Ville, — to  look  the  people  fairly  in  the  face.  And  a 
very  quiet  and  fine  old  square  is  that,  upon  which  the 
rich  black  tower  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  of  Lyons  throws 
its  shadow.  Its  pavement  is  smooth  and  solid,  its 
buildings  firm,  tall,  and  wearing  the  sober  dignity  of  years. 
Civil  carriage-men  hold  their  stand  in  the  middle,  and 
toward  mid-aftemoon,  loiterers  group  over  the  square, 
and  ladies  are  picking .  their  way  before  the  gay  shop- 
windows  at  the  sides. 

The  proud  old  Hotel  itself  is  not  a  building  to  be  slight- 
ed; and  the  clock  that  hammers  the  hours  in  its  dingy, 
but  rich  inner  court,  could  tell  strange  stories,  if  it  would, 
of  the  scenes  that  have  transpired  under  its  face,  in  the 
cruel  days  of  the  Directory.  Nowhere  was  murder  more 
rife  in  France,  than  a :  Lyons ;  and  the  council  that  or- 


166  Fresh   Gleanings. 

tiered  the  murders  held  their  sittings  in  a  little  chambei 
of  the  same  Hotel  de  Ville,  whose  windows  now  look 
down  upon  the  quiet,  gray  court.  It  is  still  there  now ; 
you  may  see  a  police  officer  hanging  idly  about  the  door- 
way, and  at  the  grand  entrance  is  always  a  corps  of  sol- 
diers. Two  colossal  reclining  figures,  that  would  make 
the  fortune  of  any  town  in  Ameiica,  still  show  the  marks 
of  the  thumping  times  of  the  Revolution  ; — it  was  the  old 
story  of  the  viper  and  the  file,  for  the  statues  were  of 
bronze,  and  guard  yet  in  the  vestibule,  their  fruits  and 
flowers. 

The  fame  of  the  cathedral  will  draw  the  stranger  on  a 
hap-hazard  chase  of  half  the  steeples  in  the  town ;  nor 
will  he  be  much  disappointed,  in  mistaking  the  church  of 
Notre-Dame  for  the  object  of  his  search.  And  abundantly 
will  he  be  rewarded,  if  his  observation  has  not  extended 
beyond  the  French  Gothic,  to  wander  at  length  under 
the  high  arches  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John.  Shall  I  de- 
scribe it  1 — then  fancy  a  forest  glade — (you,  Mary,  can  do 
it,  for  you  live  in  the  midst  of  woods) — a  forest  glade,  I 
say,  with  tree  trunks  huge  as  those  which  fatten  on  the 
banks  of  our  streams  at  home ; — fancy  the  gnarled  tops 
of  the  oaks,  and  the  lithe  tops  of  the  elms,  all  knit  togeth- 
er by  some  giant  hand,  and  the  interlacing  of  the  boughs 
tied  over  with  garlands ; — fancy  birds  humming  to  your 
ear  in  the  arbor- wrought  branches,  and  the  gold  sunlight 
streaming  through  the  interstices,  upon  the  flower-spotted 
turf, — and  the  whole  bearing  away  in  long  perspective  to 
an  arched  spot  :f  blue  sky,  with  streaks  of  white  cloud, 


Snows   of    Lyons.  167 

that  seems  the  wicket  of  Elysium. Then  fancy  the 

whole, — tree  trunks,  branches,  garlands,  transformed  to 
stone — each  leaf  perfect,  but  hard  as  rock ; — fancy  the 
bird-singing  the  warbling  of  an  organ — the  turf  turned  to 
marble,  and  in  place  of  flowers,  the  speckles  of  light  com- 
ing through  stained  glass, — in  place  of  the  mottled  sky  at 
the  end  of  the  view,  a  painted  scene  of  glory,  warmed  by 
the  sunlight  streaming  through  it, — and  you  have  before 
you  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John. 

In  front  of  the  doors,  you  may  climb  up  the  dirty  and 
steep  alleys  of  the  working  quarter  of  the  town ;  and  you 
will  hear  the  shuttle  of  the  silk-wTeavers  plying  in  the  dingy 
houses,  six  stones  from  the  ground.  The  faces  one  sees  at 
the  doors  and  windows  are  pale  and  smutted,  and  the  air 
of  the  close,  filthy  streets  reminds  one  of  the  old  town  of 
Edinburgh.  The  men  too,  wear  the  same  look  of  despe- 
ration in  their  faces,  and  scowl  at  you,  as  if  they  thought 
you  had  borne  a  part  in  the  rueful  scenes  of '94. 

The  guillotine  even  did  not  prove  itself  equal  to  the 
bloody  work  of  that  date  ;  and  men  and  women  were  tied 
to  long  cables,  and  shot  down  in  file  !  A  little  expiatory 
chapel  stands  near  the  scene  of  this  wholesale  slaughter, 
where  old  women  drop  down  on  their  knees  at  noon,  and 
say  prayers  for  murdered  husbands,  and  murdered  fathers. 

The  Rhone  borders  the  city;  the  Saone  rolls  boldly 
through  it,  and  each  of  its  sides  are  bordered  with  princely 
buildings ;  and  on  a  fete  day  the  quays  and  bridges 
throng  with  the  population  turned  loose  ; — the  Cafes  upon 
the  Place  dcs  Celc:-tins  are  thronged,  and  not  a  spare  box 


168  Fresh   Gleanings. 

of  dominoes,  or  an  empty  billiard-table,  can  be  found  in 
the  city. 

The  great  Place  de  Bellecour,  that  looked  so  desolate 
the  morning  of  my  arrival,  is  bustling  with  moving  people 
at  noon.  The  great  bulk  of  the  Post  Office  lies  along  its 
Western  edge,  and  the  colossal  statue  of  Louis  XIV.  is 
riding  his  horse  in  the  middle.  The  poor  king  was  dis- 
mounted in  the  days  of  La  Liberie,  and  an  inscription 
upon  the  base  commemorates  what  would  seem  an  unpal- 
atable truth,  that  what  popular  frenzy  destroyed,  popular 
repentance  renews ; — not  single  among  the  strange  evi- 
dences one  meets  with  at  every  turn,  of  the  versatility  of 
the  French  nation. 

Lyons  has  its  humble  pretensions  to  antiquity ;  but  the 
Lugdunensem  aram  of  Roman  date,  has  come  to  be  spill- 
ed over  with  human  blood,  instead  of  ink ;  making  four- 
fold true  the  illustration  of  Juvenal : — 

Accipiat,  sane  mercedem  sanguinis  et  sic 
Palleat,  ut  nudis  pressit  qui  calcibus  anguem, 
Aut  Lugdunensem  rhetor  dicturus  ad  aram. 

(Juv.  Sat.  L,  v.  42  et  seq.) 

There  is  an  island  in  the  river,  not  far  from  the  city 
where  Charlemagne  is  said  to  have  had  a  country  seat ; — 
if  so,  it  was  honorable  to  the  old  gentleman's  taste,  for  the 
spot  is  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  ;  and  Sundays  and  fete 
days,  the  best  of  the  Lyons  population  throng  under  its 
graceful  trees,  and  linger  there  to  see  the  sun  go  down  in 
crimson  and  gold,  across  the  hills  that  peep  out  of  the 
further  shore  of  the  Rhone 


Shows   of   Lyons.  169 

1  doubt  now,  if  tLe  reader  has  a  definite  idea  of 

the  proud,  old,  irritable  city  of  Lyons ; — of  the  narrow 
streets,  and  tall,  substantial  houses  ; — of  the  silk-workers 
upon  the  hill-sides,  up  six  and  seven  pair  of  stairs,  "  rat- 
tling, rattling,  rattling,"  all  day  long ; — of  the  two  towers 
of  the  great  Cathedral,  and  the  tracery  of  the  Gothic  arch 
between ; — of  the  Cafe  with  the  tinkling  bell  of  the  lady 
in  the  dais,  and  clean,  white  chops ; — of  the  gray,  old 
Hotel  de  Ville,  looking  capable  of  the  mischief  its  council- 
lors have  wrought ; — of  the  broad  and  business-like  quays, 
with  bales  of  silk,  and  barrels  of  wine ; — of  the  teeming 
and  bounding  rivers  rushing  by  in  a  flood  ; — of  the  broad 
valley  that  is  almost  a  plain,  save  the  sharp  rising  hill  of 
Fouvieres,  from  which  you  may  look  down  over  the 
crowded  and  noisy  city — the  gray  of  the  houses,  the  green 
of  the  meadow,  the  blue  of  the  river,  all  mellowed  by  the 
soft,  warm  sunlight  of  central  France. 

If  not,  he  must  consult  the  Gazetteer  again. 

But  Lyons  is  not  the  country ;  and  it  seems  oddly,  to 
call  that  city  with  its  two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants, 
a  town.  There  are  towns,  however,  in  France ;  and  the 
best  way  to  get  to  them — for  a  bachelor,  is  by  Diligence 
— the  desobligeant  and  post-chaise  having  mostly  gone 
by. 

H 


170  Fresh   Gleanings. 


The    Messageries    Generales. 

"\7^0U  brush  past  a  sentinel  at  130  Rue  St.  Honore,  at 
■*-  Pans, — go  through  the  archway,  and  you  are  in  the 
great  court  of  the  Messageries  Generales.  A  dozen  of 
the  lumbering  Diligences  are  ranged  about  it,  and  you 
seek  out,  amid  the  labyrinth  of  names  posted  on  the  doors, 
the  particular  end  of  your  travel.  There  is  a  little  poetic 
license  in  the  use  of  names,  and  you  will  find  Russia,  and 
Syria,  and  Gibraltar  posted, — which  means  only  that  you 
can  be  booked  at  that  particular  desk,  the  first  stage  upon 
the  way. 

Before  each  office  is  drawn  up  its  particular  coach  or 
coaches;  and  a  multitude  of  porters,  with  coat-collars 
trimmed  with  lace,  are  piling  upon  them  such  tremendous 
quantities  of  luggage,  as  make  you  tremble  for  the  safety 
of  the  roof — to  say  nothing  of  your  portmanteau,  with 
your  nicest  collars,  and  shirts,  and  dress-coat,  and  bottle 
of  Macassar  oil, — all  in  its  bellows  top,  and  perhaps  at  the 
very  bottom  of  the  pile. 

As  the  mass  accumulates,  the  travelers  begin  to  drop 
into  the  court,  and  range  themselves  about  the  Diligence. 
The  heavy  leather  apron  at  length  goes  over  the  top ;  the 
officer  comes  out  with  his  list  of  names,  and  as  they  are 
numbered,  each  takes  his  place.  Ik.  Marvel,  for  instance, 
has  number  three  o**  the  Coupee,  in  which  he  is  jammed 


The    Messageries   Generales.      171 

between  a  frightfully  large  French  lady,  and  a  small 
man  with  a  dirty  moustache,  and  big  pacquet,  which  he 
carries  between  his  legs,  so  as  to  make  himself  to  the  full 
as  engrossing  a  neighbor,  as  his  more  gentle  companion  at 
the  other  window.  These  three  seats  make  the  complement 
of  that  particular  apartment  of  the  Diligence  which  faces 
the  horses,  and  is  protected  by  glass  windows  in  front. 

The  Interior  counts  six  by  the  official  roll :  there  are, 
perhaps,  a  little  French  girl  and  "  Papa,"  who  have  been 
speaking  a  world  of  adieus  to  the  city  friends,  that  have 
attended  them  up  to  the  last  moment,  as  if  they  were 
about  setting  sail  for  the  Crosettes  in  the  South  Pacific. 
There  are  young  men — students,  perhaps — who  have  had 
their  share  of  lasses  and  adieus,  and  there  are  one  or  two 
more  inside-travelers,  over  whom  tears  have  been  shed  in 
the  court. 

Even  these  do  not  make  us  full.  The  Rotonde  has  its 
eight  more  : — here  are  men  in  blouses,  farmers,  dealers 
in  provisions,  stock  drivers,  women-servants  and  German 
bagmen.  Nor  is  this  all :  three  mount  the  top,  and  puff 
under  the  leathern  calash  in  front.  The  coachman  next 
takes  his  place,  after  having  attached  his  six  horses  with 
rawhide  thongs.  The  conductor  lifts  up  his  white  dog — 
then  mounts  himself.  Adieus  flow  from  every  window. 
There  are  waving  hands  in  the  court,  and  dramatic  hand- 
ling of  umbrellas  ;  and  the  whip  cracks, — and  the  machine 
moves. 

The  little  guard  with  his  musket,  at  the  entrance,  stands 
back  ; — we  thunder  through.     The  conductor  shouts,  the 


172  Fresh    Gleanings. 

cabmen  wheel  away,  the  dog  barks  incessantly,  the  horses 
snort  and  pull,  and  the  way  clears.  One  poor  woman 
with  cakes,  upsets  all  in  her  haste  to  get  away  ;  two  or 
three  hungry -looking  boys  prowl  about  the  wreck ;  a  po- 
liceman comes  up,  and  the  boys  move  off — all  this  in  a 
moment,  for  in  a  moment  we  are  by. 

—  Ye-e-e — says  the  coachman,  as  he  cracks  his  whip, 
— Gar-r-re — says  the  conductor  to  the  crowds  crossing ; — 
wow- wow-wow  —  yells  the  snarly,  white  dog;  —  Pardi 
— exclaims  the  fat  lady  ; — le  diable  ! — says  the  man  with 
the  dirty  moustache, — and  down  the  long  Rue  St.  Honore 
we  thunder. 


French   Roadside. 

F  INHERE  are  no  such  pretty  little  half-town,  half-coun- 
-*-  try  residences  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  French 
cities,  as  one  sees  in  the  environs  of  all  the  British 
towns.  First,  outside  the  Banners,  come  the  guinguettcs 
and  eating-houses  ; — then  great  slattern  maisons  garnies 
for  such  as  choose  a  long  walk,  and  dirty  rooms,  before 
paying  town  prices.  These  lessen  in  pretensions  as  you 
advance,  and  lengthen  into  half  villages  of  ill-made,  and 
ill-kept  houses.  The  inns  are  not  unfrequent,  and  are 
swarmed  by  the  wagon-men  on  their  routes  to  and  from 
the  city.  These  pass  at  length,  and  the  open  country  of 
wide-spreading  grain-fields  appears. 


French    Roadside.  173 

Perhaps  it  is  nearly  dark  (for  the  Diligence  takes  its 
departure  at  evening)  before  the  monstrous  vehicle  clat- 
ters up  to  the  first  inn  of  a  little  suburban  town  for 
a  relay.  The  conductor  dismounts,  and  the  coachman  is 
succeeded  by  another, — for  each  has  the  care  and  man- 
agement of  his  own  horses. 

Of  course  there  is  a  fair  representation  of  the  curious 
ones  of  the  village,  and  if  a  passenger  dismount,  perhaps 
a  beggar  or  two  will  plead  in  a  diffident  sort  of  way, — as 
if  they  had  no  right,  and  hoping  you  may  not  suspect 
it.  The  conductor  is  the  prime  mover,  and  the  cyno- 
sure of  all  country  eyes ;  and  his  tasseled  cap  and  em- 
broidered collar  are  the  envy  of  many  a  poor  swain 
in  shirt  sleeves.  Even  the  postmaster  is  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  him,  and  bids  him  a  hearty  bon  soir,  as  the 
new  coachman  cracks  his  whip,  and  the  dog  barks,  and 
we  find  ourselves  on  the  road  again.  A  straggling  line 
of  white-washed  houses  each  side  a  broad  street,  with 
one  or  two  little  inns,  and  a  parish  church  looking  older, 
by  a  century,  than  the  rest  of  the  houses,  make  up  the 
portraiture  of  the  village. 

Whoever  travels  in  a  French  Diligence,  must  prepare 
himself  to  meet  with  all  sorts  of  people,  and  must,  more 
especially,  fortify  himself  against  the  pangs  of  hunger, 
and  want  of  sleep.  Those  who  have  jolted  a  night  on  a 
French  road  pave,  between  a  fat  lady,  and  a  man  who 
smells  of  garlic,  will  know  what  it  is  to  want  the  latter ; 
and  twelve  hours'  ride,  without  stopping  long  enough  for 
a  lunch,  has  made  many  persons,  more  fastidious  under 


174  Fresh   Gleanings. 

other  circumstances,  very  ready  to  buy  the  dry  brown 
buns,  which  the  old  women  offer  at  the  coach  windows, 

the  last  relay  before  midnight. How  wishfully  is  the 

morning  hoped  for,  and  how  joyfully  welcomed,  even  the 
first  faint  streak  of  light  in  the  East ! 

The  man  in  the  corner  rubs  open  his  eyes,  and  takes 
off  his  night-cap ;  the  fat  lady  arranges  her  head-dress  as 
best  she  may ; — and  soon  appears  over  the  backs  of  the 
horses,  evidences  of  an  approaching  town.  We  pass 
market-people  with  their  little  donkeys,  and  queer-dress- 
ed women  in  sabots,  with  burdens  on  their  heads ;  and 
heavy- walled  houses  thicken  along  the  way. 

Soon  the  tower  or  spire  of  some  old  cathedral  looms 
over  crowds  of  buildings,  and  we  bustle  with  prodigious 
clatter  through  the  diity  streets  of  some  such  Provincial 
town  as  Auxerre.  Along  a  stone  building  stuccoed  and 
whitewashed,  with  the  huge  black  capitals  —  Hotel  de 
Paris — over  the  door,  is  announced  a  breakfast-place. 
The  waiter  or  landlord  is  far  more  chary  of  his  civilities 
than  at  an  English  country  inn;  all,  including  the  fat 
lady,  are  obliged  to  find  their  own  way  down,  and  to  the 
breakfast-room. 

The  first  attempt  will  bring  one,  perhaps,  into  a 
huge  kitchen,  where  a  dozen  people  in  white  aprons 
and  blue,  are  moving  about  in  all  directions,  and 
take  no  more  notice  of  you,  than  if  you  were  the 
conductor's  dog.  You  have  half  a  mind  to  show  your 
resentment,  by  eating  no  breakfast  at  all ;  but  the 
pangs    of  hunger    are    too   strong;    and    they  unfortu- 


French    Roadside.  175 

natcly  know  as  well  as  you,  that  he  who  rides  the  night 
in  the  Diligence,  finds  himself  at  morning  in  no  humor 
for  fasting. 

If  you  ask  after  breakfast-quarters,  you  arc  perhaps 
civilly  pointed  to  the  door.  A  rambling  table  set  over 
with  a  score  of  dishes,  and  a  bottle  of  red  wine  at  each 
place,  with  chops,  omelettes,  stewed  liver,  potatoes,  and 
many  dishes  whose  character  can  not  be  represented  by 
a  name,  engross  the  lively  regards  of  the  twenty  passen- 
gers who  have  borne  us  company.  Commands  and 
counter-commands,  in  the  accentuation  of  Auvergne  or  of 
Provence, — calling  for  a  dozen  things  that  are  not  to  be 
had,  and  complaining  of  a  dozen  things  that  are,  make 
the  place  a  Babel. 

—  Garqon, — says  a  middle-aged  man  from  the  interior, 
with  his  mouth  full  of  hot  liver, — is  this  the  wine  of  the 
country  ] 

—  Oui,  Monsieur,  and  of  the  best  quality. 

—  Mon  Dieu  !  it  is  vinegar  ! — and  of  what  beast,  pray, 
is  this  the  liver  1  (taking  another  mouthful.) 

—  Cest  de  veau,  Monsieur,  and  it  is  excellent. 

—  Par  bleu!  garqon,  you  are  facetious;  it  is  like  a 
bull's  hide. 

The  fat  lady  is  trying  the  eggs  : — Bonne, — she  pipes  to 
the  waiting- woman, — are  these  eggs  fresh  ] 

—  They  cannot  be  more  fresh,  Madame. 

—  Eh  bien, — (with  a  sigh) — one  must  prepare  for 
such  troubles  in  the  country;  but,  mon  Dieu,  what 
charming  eggs  one  finds  at  Paris !" 


1 7*>  Fresh    Gleanings. 

—  Ah,  Jest  vraiy  Madame, — says  a  stumpy  man 
opposite, — Jest  Men  vrai  ;  je  suis  de  Paris,  Madame. 

—  Vraiment ! — replies  the  lady,  not  altogether  taken 
with  the  speaker's  looks, — I  would  hardly  have  thought 
it. 

If  the  stranger  can,  by  dint  of  yoice  among  so  many 
voices,  and  so  much  gesticulation,  get  his  fair  quota  of 
food,  he  may  consider  himself  fortunate ;  and  if  he  has 
fairly  finished,  before  the  conductor  appeal's  to  say  all  is 
ready,  he  is  still  more  fortunate. 

At  length  all  are  again  happily  bestowed  in  their 
places ; — the  two  francs  paid  for  the  breakfast,  the  two 
sous  to  the  surly  garc.on,  and  we  roll  off  from  the  H6tel 
de  Paris. 

Every  one  is  manifestly  in  better  humor: — they  are 
talking  busily  in  the  Interior;  and  the  fat  lady  delivers 
herself  of  a  series  of  panegyrics  upon  the  Boulevards  and 
Tuileries. 

Meantime  we  are  passing  over  broad  plains,  and 
through  long  avenues  of  elms,  or  lindens,  or  poplars. 
The  road  for  breadth  and  smoothness  is  like  a  street, 
anu  stretches  on  before  us  in  seemingly  interminable 
length. 

There  are  none  of  those  gray  stone  walls  by  the 
wayside,  which  hem  you  in  throughout  New  England  ; — 
none  of  those  crooked,  brown  fences  which  stretch  by 
miles  along  the  roads  of  Virginia; — none  of  those  ever- 
lasting pine  woods  under  which  you  ride  in  the 
Carolines, — your  wheels   half  buried  in  the  sand,   and 


French    Roadside.  177 

nothing  green  upon  it,  but  a  sickly  si  rub  of  the  live  oak, 
or  a  prickly  cactus  half  reddened  by  the  sun; — nor  yet 
are  there  those  trim  hedges  which  skirt  you  right  and 
left  in  English  landscape.  Upon  the  plains  of  Central 
France  you  see  no  fence ; — nothing  by  which  to  measure 
the  distance  you  pass  over,  but  the  patches  of  grain  and 
of  vineyard.  Here  and  there  a  flock  of  sheep  are 
watched  by  an  uncouth  shepherd,  and  shaggy  dogs ;  or  a 
cow  is  feeding  beside  the  grain,  tethered  to  a  stake,  or 
guarded  by  some  bare-ancled  Daphne. 

There  are  no  such  quiet  cottage  farm-houses  as  gem 
the  hill-sides  of  Britain ;  —  no  such  tasteless  timber 
structures  as  deface  the  landscape  of  New  England : — 
but  the  farmery,  as  you  come  upon  it  here  and  there,  is  a 
walled-up  nest  of  houses  ;  you  catch  sight  of  a  cart, — you 
see  a  group  of  children, — you  hear  a  yelping  dog, — and 
the  farmery  is  left  behind.  Sometimes  the  road  before 
you  stretches  up  a  long  ascent ; — the  conductor  opens  the 
door,  and  all,  save  the  fat  lady,  dismount  for  a  walk  up 
the  hill.  Now  it  is,  you  can  look  back  over  the  grain 
and  vineyards,  woven  into  carpets,— tied  up  with  the 
thread  of  a  river.  The  streak  of  road  will  glisten  in  the 
sun,  and  perhaps  a  train  of  wagons,  that  went  tinkling 
by  you,  an  hour  ago,  is  but  a  moving  dot,  far  down  upon 
the  plain.  The  air  is  fresher  as  you  go  up  ;  glimpses  of 
woodland  break  the  monotony ;  here  and  there  you  spy 
an  old  chateau ;  and  if  it  be  spring-time  or  early  autumn, 
the  atmosphere  is  delicious,  and  you  go  toiling  up  the 
hills, — rejoicing  in  the  sun. 


178  Frebh  Gleanings. 

In  summer,  you  pant  exhausted  before  you  have  half 
risen  the  hill,  and  turning  to  look  back  —  the  yellow  grain 
looks  scorched,  and  the  air  simmers  over  its  crowded 
ranks ; — the  flowers  you  pluck  by  the  way  are  dried  up 
with  heat. 

In  winter,  the  roads  upon  the  plains  are  bad,  and  it 
will  be  midnight  perhaps  before  you  are  upon  the  hills, — 
if  you  breakfast  as  I  did  at  Auxerre ; — and  I  found  the 
snow  half  over  the  wheels,  and  with  eight  horses  our 
lumbering  coach  went  toiling  through  the  drifts. 

Such  is  the  general  character  of  the  great  high-roads 
across  France ;  but  there  is  something  more  attractive  on 
the  retired  routes. 

F will  remember  our  tramp  in  summer-time  unaer 

the  heavy  old  boughs  of  the  forest  of  Fontainbleau  ; — and 
how  we  looked  up  wonderingly  at  tree-trunks,  which 
would  have  been  vast  in  our  American  valleys; — he 
will  remember  our  lunch  at  the  little  town  of  Fossard, 
and  the  inn  with  its  dried  bough,  and  the  baked  pears, 
and  the  sour  wine.  He  will  remember  the  tapestried 
chamber  at  Villeneuve  du  Roi,  and  the  fair-day,  and  the 
peasant  girls  in  their  gala  dresses,  and  the  dance  in  the 
evening  on  the  green  turf: — he  will  remember  the 
strange  old  walled-up  town  of  St.  Florentin,  and  the 
pretty  meadows,  and  the  canal  lined  with  poplars,  when 
our  tired  steps  brought  to  us  the  first  sight — (how  grateful 
was  it !)  of  the  richly-wrought  towers  of  the  Cathedral  of 
Sens.  He  will  remember,  too,  how  farther  on  toward  the 
mountains,  in  another  sweet  meadow  where  willows  were 


Limoges.  179 

growing,  I  threw  down  my  knapsack,  and  took  the  scythe 
from  a  peasant  boy,  and  swept  down  the  nodding  tall 
heads  of  the  lucerne,  —  utterly  forgetting  his  sardonic 
smile,  and  the  grinning  stare  of  the  peasant, — forgetting 
that  the  blue  line  of  the  Juras  was  lifting  from  the  hori- 
zon,— or  that  the  sun  of  France  was  warming  me,  and 
mindful  only  of  the  old  perfume  of  the  wilted  blossoms, 
and  the  joyous  summer  days  on  the  farm-land  at  home. 


Limoges. 

"¥yl"TE  wish  to  take  our  stop  at  some — not  too  large 
*  "  town  of  the  interior  ;  and  which  shall  it  be, — Cha- 
lons sur  Saone,  with  its  bridge,  and  quays,  and  meadows  ; 
— or  Dijon  lying  in  the  vineyards  of  Burgundy; — or  Cha- 
teauroux  in  the  great  sheep  plains  of  Central  France ; — 
or  Limoges,  still  more  unknown,  prettily  situated  among 
the  green  hills  of  Limousin,  and  chief  town  of  the  De- 
partement  Haute  Vienne  ? 

Let  it  be  just  by  the  Boule  d'Or,  in  the  town  last  named 
that  I  quit  my  seat  in  the  Diligence.  The  little  old  place 
is  not  upon  any  of  the  great  routes,  so  that  the  servants 
of  the  inn  have  not  become  too  republican  for  civility ; 
and  a  blithe  waiting-maid  is  at  hand  to  take  our  luggage. 
A  plain  doorway  in  the  heavy  stone  inn,  and  still  plain- 
er and  steeper  stairway  conduct  to  a  clean,  large  cham- 
ber upon  the  first  floor.     Below,  in  the  little  salon,  some 


ISO  Fresh    Gleanings. 

three  or  four  are  at  supper.  Join  them  you  may,  if  you 
please,  with  a  chop  nicely  done,  and  a  palatable  vin  du 
fays. 

It  is  too  dark  to  see  the  town.  You  are  tired  with 
eight-and-forty  hours  of  constant  Diligence-riding,  —  if 
you  have  come  from  Lyons  as  I  did,  —  and  the  bed  is 
excellent. 

The  window  overlooks  the  chief  street  of  the  place;  it 
is  wide  and  paved  with  round  stones,  and  dirty,  and  there 
are  no  sidewalks,  though  a  town  of  30,000  inhabitants. 
Nearly  opposite  is  a  Cafe,  with  small  green  settees  ranged 
about  the  door,  with  some  tall  flowering  shrubs  in  green 
boxes,  and  even  at  eight  in  the  morning,  two  or  three  are 
loitering  upon  their  chairs,  and  sipping  coffee.  Next 
door  is  the  office  of  the  Diligence  for  Paris.  Farther  up 
the  street  are  haberdashery  shops,  and  show-roome  of  the 
famous  Limoges  crockery.  Soldiers  are  passing  by  twos, 
and  cavalry-men  in  undress,  go  sauntering  by  on  fine 
coal-black  horses  ; — and  the  guide-book  tells  me  that  from 
this  region  come  the  horses  for  all  the  cavalry  of  France. 

The  maid  comes  to  say  it  is  the  hour  for  the  table  d'hote 
breakfast.  One  would  hardly  believe,  that  there  are 
travelers  who  neglect  this  best  of  all  places  for  observing 
country  habits,  and  take  their  coffee  alone,  with  English 
grimness.  What  matter  if  one  does  fall  in  with  manner- 
less commercial  travelers,  or  gnuff-taking  old  women,  and 
listen  to  such  table-talk  as  would  make  good  Mrs.  Un- 
win  blush  %  You  learn  from  all, — what  you  can  not  learn 
anywhere  else, — the  every-day  habits  of  every-day  peo- 


Limoges.  181 

pie. — Do  not  be  frightened  at  the  room  full,  or  the  clatter 
of  plates,  or  the  six-and-twenty  all  talking  at  the  same 
moment : — go  around  the  table  quietly,  take  the  first 
empty  chair  at  hand,  and  call  for  a  bowl  of  soup,  and 
half  a  bottle  of  wine. 

This  is  no  Paris  breakfast,  with  its  rich,  oily  beverage, 
and  bread  of  Provence ;  nor  Lyons  breakfast  with  its 
white  cutlets,  but  there  are  as  many  covers  as  at  a  dinner 
in  Baden.  One  may,  indeed,  have  coffee,  if  he  is  so  odd- 
fancied  as  to  call  for  it ;  but  I  always  liked  to  chime  in 
with  the  humors  of  the  country ;  and  though  I  may  possi- 
bly have  stepped  over  to  the  Cafe  to  make  my  breakfast 
complete,  it  seemed  to  me,  that  I  lost  nothing  in  listening 
and  looking  on — in  actual  experience  of  the  ways  of  living. 

Whoever  carries  with  him  upon  the  Continent  a  high 
sense  of  personal  dignity,  that  must  be  sustained  at  all 
hazards,  will  find  himself  exposed  to  innumerable  vexa- 
tions by  the  way,  and  at  the  end — if  he  have  the  sense  to 
perceive  it — be  victim  of  the  crowning  vexation  of  re- 
turning as  ignorant  as  he  went. 

It  is  singular  too,  that  such  ridiculous  presumption 
upon  dignity  is  observable  in  many  instances — where  it 
rests  with  least  grace — in  the  persons  of  American  trav- 
elers. Whoever  makes  great  display  of  wealth  will  en 
joy  the  distinction  which  mere  exhibition  of  wealth,  will 
command  in  every  country — the  close  attention  of  the 
vulgar ;  its  display  may,  besides,  secure  somewhat  better 
hotel  attendance ;  but,  whoever  wears  with  it,  or  without 
it,  an  air  of  hauteur,  whether  affected  or  real,  whethei 


182  Fresh    Gleanings. 

due  to  position,  or  worn  to  cover  lack  of  position,  will 
find  it  counting  him  very  little  in  way  of  personal  comfort, 
and  far  less  toward  a  full  observation  and  appreciation  of 
the  life  of  those  among  whom  he  travels. 

In  such  an  out-of-the-way  manufacturing  town  as  Limo- 
ges, one  sees  the  genuine  Commis  voyageur — commercial 
traveler*  of  France,  corresponding  to  the  bagmen  of 
England.  Not  as  a  class  so  large,  they  rank  also  beneath 
them  in  respect  of  gentlemanly  conduct.  In  point  of  gen- 
eral information,  they  are  perhaps  superior. 

The  French  bagman  ventures  an  occasional  remark 
upon  the  public  measures  of  the  day,  and  sometimes  with 
much  shrewdness.  He  is  aware  that  there  is  such  a 
country  as  America,  and  has  understood,  from  what  he 
considers  authentic  sources,  that  a  letter  for  Buenos 
Ayres,  would  not  be  delivered  by  the  New- York  post- 
man. None  know  better  than  a  thorough  English  com- 
mercial traveler,  who  has  been  "  long  upon  the  road,"  the 
value  of  a  gig,  and  a  spanking  bay  mare,  or  the  character 
of  leading  houses  in  London  or  Manchester,  or  the  quali- 
ity  of  Woodstock  gloves,  or  Worcester  whips  ;  but,  as  for 
knowing  if  Newfoundland  be  off  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  or  in 
the  Adriatic — the  matter  is  too  deep  for  him. 

The  Frenchman,  on  the  other  hand,  is  most  voluble  on 
a  great  many  subjects,  all  of  which  he  seems  to  know  of, 

*  A  class  of  men  who  negotiate  business  between  town  and  country 
dealers — manufacturers  and  their  sale  agents— common  to  all  Euro- 
pean countries. 


Limoges.  183 

much  better  than  he  really  knows ;  and  he  will  fling  you 
a  tirade  at  Thiers,  or  give  you  a  caricature  of  the  king, 
that  will  make  half  the  table  lay  down  the  mouthful  they 
had  taken  up — for  laughing. 

Modesty  is  not  in  his  catalogue  of  virtues.  He  knows 
the  best  dish  upon  the  table,  and  he  seizes  upon  it  with- 
out formality ;  if  he  empties  the  dish,  he  politely  asks  your 
pardon — (he  would  take  off  his  hat,  if  he  had  it  on),  and 
is  sorry  there  is  not  enough  for  you.  He  will  serve  him- 
self to  the  breast,  thighs,  and  side-bones  of  a  small  chick- 
en, dispose  of  a  mouthful  or  two — then  turn  to  the  lady 
at  his  side,  and  say  with  the  most  gracious  smile  in  flie 
world,  —  Mille  pardons,  Madame,  mats  vous  ne  mangez 
pas  de  volatile — but  you  do  not  eat  fowl  1 

His  great  pleasure,  however,  after  eating,  is  in  enlight- 
ening the  minds  of  the  poor  Provincials  as  to  the  wonders 
of  Paris  : — a  topic  that  never  grows  old,  and  never  wants 
for  hearers.  And  so  brilliantly  does  he  enlarge  upon  the 
splendors  of  the  capital,  with  gesticulation  and  emphasis 
sufficient  for  a  discourse  of  Bossuet,  as  makes  his  whole 
auditory  as  solicitous  for  one  look  upon  Paris,  as  ever 
a  Mohammedan  for  one  offering  at  the  Mecca  of  his 
worship. 

A  corner  seat  in  the  interior  of  the  Diligence,  or  the 
head  place  at  a  country  inn  table,  are  his  posts  of  tri- 
umph. He  makes  friends  of  all  about  the  inns,  since  his 
dignity  does  not  forbid  his  giving  a  word  to  all ;  and  he  is 
as  ready  to  coquet  with  the  maid  of  all  work,  as  with  the 
landlady's  niece.     His  hair  is  short  and  crisp  ;  his  mous- 


1  31  F  R  E  R  II     GlEANl  N  G  S. 

tache  stiff  and  thick ;  and  his  hand  fat  and  fair,  with  a 
bignet-ring  upon  the  little  finger  of  his  left. 

You  can  not  offend  his  dignity  ;  his  flow  of  good  spirits 
and  self-conceit,  make  it  the  most  idle  thing  in  the  world 
to  attempt  to  shake  him  off  by  an  insult ;  and  hence,  he  is 
a  very  thorn  in  the  sides  of  those  stiff-necked  Englishmen, 
who,  as  a  fat,  old  German  once  puffed  to  me — consider 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  as  domestics. 

Such  characters  make  up  a  large  part  of  the  table 
company  in  towns  like  Limoges.  In  running  over  the 
village,  you  are  happily  spared  the  plague  of  valets-de- 
place.  Ten  to  one,  if  you  have  fallen  into  conversation 
with  the  commis  voyageur  at  your  side,  he  will  offer  to 
show  you  over  the  famous  crockery-works,  for  which  he 
has  the  honor  to  be  traveling  agent.  Thus,  you  make  a 
profit  of  what  you  were  a  fool  to  scorn. 

There  are  curious  old  churches,  and  a  simple-minded, 
gray-haired  verger,  to  open  the  side  chapels,  and  to  help 
you  spell  the  names  on  tombs — not  half  so  tedious  will 
the  old  man  prove,  as  the  automaton  Cathedral-showers 
of  England ;  and  he  spices  his  talk  with  a  little  wit. 
There  are  shops,  not  unlike  those  of  a  middle-sized  town 
in  our  country : — still,  little  air  of  trade, — and  none  at 
all  of  progress.  Decay  seems  to  be  stamped  on  nearly 
all  the  country -towns  of  France ; — unless  so  large  as  to 
make  cities,  and  so  have  a  life  of  their  own ; — or  so  small 
as  to  serve  only  as  market-towns  for  the  peasantry. 

Country  gentlemen  are  a  race  unknown  in  France,  as 
they  are  nearly  so  with  us.     Even  the  towns  have  not 


Limoges.  185 

their  quota  of  wealthy  inhabitants,  except  so  many  as  are 
barely  necessary  to  supply  capital  for  the  works  of  the 
people.  There  is  no  estate  in  the  neighborhood,  with  its 
park  and  elegantly  cultivated  farms  and  preserves ;  there 
are  no  little  villas  capping  all  the  pretty  eminences  in  the 
vicinity ;  and  even  such  fine  houses  as  are  found  within 
the  limits  of  the  town  wear  a  deserted  look.  The  stucco 
is  peeling  off — the  entrance-gate  is  barred — the  owner  is 
living  at  Paris.  You  see  few  men  of  gentlemanly  bear- 
ing, unless  you  except  the  military  officers,  and  the  priests. 
You  wonder  what  resources  can  have  built  so  beautifui 
churches ; — and  as  you  stroll  over  their  marble  floors,  lis- 
tening to  the  vespers  dying  away  along  the  empty  aisles, 
— you  wonder  who  are  the  worshippers. 

Wandering  out  of  the  edge  of  the  town  of  Limoges, 
you  come  upon  hedges  and  green  fields ; — for  Limousin 
is  the  Arcadia  of  France.  Queer  old  houses  adorn  some 
of  the  narrow  streets,  and  women  in  strange  head-dresses 
look  out  of  the  balconies  that  lean  half  way  over.  But 
Sunday  is  their  holyday  time,  when  all  are  in  their 
gayest,  and  when  the  green  walks  encircling  the  town, 
— laid  upon  that  old  line  of  ramparts  which  the  Black 
Prince  stormed, — are  thronged  with  the  population. 

The  bill  at  the  Boule  d'  Or  is  not  an  extravagant  one : 
for  as  strangers  are  not  common,  the  trick  of  extortion  is 
unknown.  The  waiting-maid  drops  a  courtesy,  and 
gives  a  smiling  bon  jour — not  surely  unmindful  of  the 
little  fee  she  gets,  but  she  never  disputes  its  amount,  and 
Beems  grateful  for  the  least.     There  is  no  "  boots"  or 


] 8G  Fresh   Gleanings. 

waiter  to  dog  you  over  to  the  Diligence ; — nay,  if  you 
are  not  too  old,  or  ugly,  the  little  girl  herself  insists  upon 
taking  your  portmanteau, — and  trips  across  with  it, — and 
puts  it  in  the  hands  of  the  conductor, — and  waits  your 
going  earnestly, — and  waves  her  hand  at  you, — and  gives 
you  another  "  bon  voyage''  that  makes  your  ears  tingle 
till  the  houses  of  Limoges,  and  its  high  towers  have  van- 
ished, and  you  are  a  mile  away,  down  the  pleasant  banks 
of  the  river  Vienne. 


Rouen. 

Ol  HALL  we  set  a  foot  down  for  a  moment  in  the 
*--*  queer,  interesting,  busy,  old  Norman  town  of  Rouen, 
— where  everybody  goes,  who  goes  to  Paris,  but  where 
few  stop,  for  a  look  at  what  in  many  respects,  is  most 
curious  to  see,  in  all  France  ]  The  broad,  active  quays, 
and  the  elegant  modern  buildings  upon  them,  and  the 
bridges,  and  the  river  with  its  barges  and  steamers,  are, 
it  is  true,  worth  the  seeing,  and  exposed  to  the  eye  of 
every  passer, — and  give  one  the  idea  of  a  new  and  enter- 
prising city.  But  back  from  this,  is  another  city — the 
old  city,  infinitely  more  worthy  of  attention. 

Out  of  its  midst  rises  the  corkscrew  iron  tower  of  the 
Cathedral, — under  which  sleeps  Rollo,  the  first  Duke 
of  Normandy ;  and  if  one  have  the  courage  to  mount 
to  the  dizzy  summit  of  that  corkscrew  winding  tower  of 


Rouen.  187 

iron,  he  will  see  such  a  labyrinth  of  ways, — shut  in  by  such 
confusion  of  gables,  and  such  steep,  sharp  roofs,  glittering 
with  so  many  colored  tiles,  as  that  he  will  seem  to  dream 
a  dream  of  the  Olden  Time. 

And  if  he  have  an  Agricultural  eye,  it  will  wander 

delightedly  over  the  broad,  rich  plains  that  there  border 
the  Seine,  —  rich  in  all  manner  of  corn-land,  and  in 
orchards.  And  if  he  have  an  Historic  eye,  it  will  single 
out  an  old  castle  or  two  that  show  themselves  upon 
the  neighbor  hills  ; — and  the  ruins,  and  the  Seine,  and  the 
valley,  and  the  town,  will  group  together  in  his  imagina- 
tion,— and  he  will  bear  away  the  picture  in  his  mind 
to  his  Western  home  in  the  wilderness ; — and  it  shall  serve 
him  as  an  illustration — a  living  illustration  to  the  old 
chronicles  of  wars — whether  of  Monstrelet,  or  Turner,  or 
Anquetil,  or  Michelet — down  through  all  the  time  of 
his  thinking  life.  So,  when  he  readeth  of  Norman  plain 
blasted  with  battle,  and  knightly  helmets  glittering  in  the 
crash  of  war,  he  shall  have  a  scene — a  scene  lying  clear  as 
mid-day  under  the  eye  of  steady  memory,  in  the  which 
he  may  plant  his  visions  of  Joan  of  Arc,  or  of  stout 
Henry  V.,  or  of  driveling  Charles  VI.,  or  of  Jean  sans 
peur — for  these — all  of  them,  he  knows,  have  trodden  the 
valley  of  Rouen. 

Whoever  may  have  seen  English  Worcester  or  Glou- 
cester, will  have  a  foretaste  of  what  comes  under  the  eye 
at  Rouen  ; — but  to  one  fresh  from  the  new,  straight  thor- 
oughfares of  America,  nothing  surely  can  seem  stranger 
than  the  dark,  crowded  ways  of  the  capital  of  Normandy. 


1 88  Fresh    GhEANMNog. 

How  narrow,  how  dirty,  how  cool !  for  even  in  sum- 
mer the  sun  can  not  come  down  in  them — for  the  pro- 
jecting balconies,  and  the  tallness  of  the  houses;  and 
between  the  fountains  in  the  occasional  open  places,  and 
the  incessant  washings,  it  is  never  dry.  There  is  no 
pavement  for  the  foot-goer  but  the  sharp,  round  stones 
sticking  up  from  side  to  side,  and  sloping  down  to 
the  sluiceway  in  the  middle.  Donkeys  with  loads  of 
cabbages,  that  nearly  fill  up  the  way, — women  with 
baskets  on  their  heads,  and  staring  strangers,  and  gen 
d'armerie  in  their  cocked  hats — marching  two  by  two,  and 
soldiers,  and  schoolboys  (not  common  in  France),  and 
anxious-faced  merchants  (still  rarer  out  of  the  North) — 
all  troop  together  under  gables,  that  would  seem  to  tot- 
ter, were  they  not  of  huge  oak  beams,  whose  blackened 
heads  peep  out  from  the  brick  walls,  like  faces  of  an  Age 
gone  by. 

What  quaint  carving ! — what  heavy  old  tiles,  when  you 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  peaked  roofs  ! — what  windings  and 
twists !  There  are  well-filled,  and  sometimes  elegant 
shops  below,  with  story  on  story  reeling  above  them. 

Away  through  an  opening,  that  is  only  a  streak  of 

light  at  the  end,  appears  the  ugly  brown  statue  of  the 
Maid  of  Orleans.  There  she  was  burned,  poor  girl ! — 
and  the  valet,  if  you  have  the  little  English  boy  of  the 
Hdtel  de  Rouen,  will  tell  you  how,  and  when,  and  why, 
they  burned  her; — and  he  will  ring  the  bell  at  the  gate 
of  a  strange,  old  house  close  by,  and  beckon  you  into  the 
court,  where  you   will  see   around   the   walls,  the  bas- 


Rouen.  189 

reliefs  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold.  St.  Owens  too,  which  after 
Strasburg  Cathedral,  is  the  noblest  Gothic  church  in 
France,  is  in  some  corner  of  the  never-ending  curious 
streets.  And  on  a  fete  day,  what  store  of  costume  on  its 
pavement !  "What  big,  white  muslin  caps, — flaring  to  left 
and  right !  What  show  of  red  petticoats,  and  steeple- 
crowned  hats,  and  clumping  sabots,  and  short-waisted 
boys,  and  little,  brown  men  of  Brittany ! 

But  there  is  style  in  Rouen : — and  now  and  then  in 
the  narrowest  ways,  you  must  jump  aside  to  give  room 
to  some  dashing  equipage.  There  are  Cafes  brilliant 
with  gas  and  mirrors,  and  there  are  Paris  Restaurants 
where  one  may  initiate  himself  in  the  forms  of  the 
C  apital. 

There  is  a  middle-aged  lady  at  the  office  of  the  Hotel 
de  Rouen, — and  what  a  charming  specimen  of  French 
urbanity  is  that  woman  !  You  ask  for  a  room, — she  will 
give  you  a  room  and  salon  to  boot ; — you  want  lunch, — 
she  will  give  you  a  dinner; — you  want  your  bill, — she 
will  give  you  as  good  as  two. 

Rouen  is  favorably  situated  for  all  the  innocent 
extortions  of  porters  and  innkeepers;  it  catches  the 
stranger  fresh  in  the  country, — nine  in  ten  English, — and 
in  consulting  in  some  degree  the  measure  of  English 
comforts, — the  landlord  consults  yet  more  scrupulously  the 
measure  of  English  pockets. 

There  is  no  such  array  of  parlors,  and  smoking-rooms, 
and  reading-rooms,  as  belong  to  New  York  hotels; — 
the   dining   salon   is   the   unum  ad  omnia,  and  there  is 


190  Fresh    Gleanings. 

nothing  beside.  Your  bed  is  served  with  fresh  linen  and 
clean,  and  you  may  look  out  from  your  window,  over 
the  busy  Quay,  and  its  fleet  of  flat-boats  lying  along  its 
side,  and  the  bridges  from  stone  to  chain ; — but  as  I  said, 
— the  charms  of  the  place  rest  in  the  old  town. 

Step   back   into    the   Palais    de    Justice,    which 

comes  as  near  the  extravagantly-rich  Gothic  of  Belgic 
Louvain,  as  reality  can  come  to  dreams  : — listen  to  the 
pleasantly  modulated  voice  of  the  Norman  magistrate 
floating  under  the  black  oaken,  gold-embossed  ceiling ; — 
see  the  groups  of  strange  dressed  scribes  and  advocates, 
and  the  people  listening.  Never  mind  being  jostled  by 
some  dirty  fellows  in  blouses ; — never  mind  the  short, 
stout  woman  with  two  babies; — never  mind  the  long, 
greasy-haired  man  with  a  Hebrew  eye,  that  elbows  you 
one  6ide  ; — nor  the  close  smells  of  the  chamber, — until  at 
least  you  can  carry  away  some  definite  idea  of  the  noble 
old  hall,  and  the  motley  groupings  of  a  Provincial  court- 
room. 

Rouen  wears  no  symptoms  of  decay, — except  such  as 
are  seen  in  the  gables  of  five  or  six  centuries  ago.  It  is 
among  the  few  interior  cities  of  France  which  is  upon 
the  increase, — which  wears  the  American  air  of  progress, 
— which  is  alive  with  the  bustle  of  business, — which  has 
devotees  enough  to  fill  its  proud  old  churches, — and 
which  has  successful  commerce  enough  to  keep  them  in 
repair.  It  has  its  fashions .  and  fashionable  people : 
and  though  Paris  ranks  with  them  as  the  sun  in  the 
firmament,  still  their  nearness,  and  wealth  enable  them  to 


Rouen.  191 

look  down  on  most  other  Provincials.  Indeed  there  is 
more  of  the  air  of  Parisians  about  the  shop-keepers,  and 
shop-girls,  and  the  street  loungers,  than  can  be  seen  in 
most  cities  of  the  kingdom.  It  has  its  little  suburban 
residences, — in  this,  coming  nearer  an  English  town,  than 
even  Paris  itself.  It  has  its  public  walks, — and  alone,  of 
French  cities  (excepting  Pau  in  the  South),  has  its 
environs. 

One  might  pass  months  at  Rouen  not  unpleasantly, 
provided  he  could  forget  Paris.  Here,  as  every  where 
else  in  France,  the  Capital  with  its  amusements,  is  the 
absorbent  of  all  the  ambitious  designs  in  life.  The  manu- 
facturer contents  himself  with  Normandy,  only  in  the 
hope  of  acquiring  means  that  will  enable  him  to  establish 
his  roof-tree  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain:  or  if  he  dies  in 
the  height  of  his  employ,  the  wealth  .that  his  industry  has 
amassed  is  transferred  to  an  atmosphere,  more  conge- 
nial to  the  widow,  and  her  children.  The  shop-boy 
of  Rouen  is  hoping  always  for  an  occasion  upon  the 
Boulevard  or  Rue  Richelieu.  The  carman  sighs  for  St. 
Antoine  ; — the  Grisette — for  Rouen  nurtures  a  branch  of 
the  family — dreams  of  the  Chaumiere  and  Mabil.  Even 
the  barber  would  williugly  shave  for  two  sous  less  at 
Paris,  than  in  the  Norman  city  of  his  birth. 


1  <>2  Fses  ii   Gleanings. 


NlSMES. 

]%  J["ANY  —  many  dull  Diligence-days  lie  between 
-!-"-■-  Rouen,  and  the  sunny  Southern  town  of  Nismes : 
yet  with  the  wishing,  we  are  there  at  once. 

Where  was  born  Guizot, — where  are  Protestant 

people, — where  are  almost  quiet  Sundays, — where  is  a 
Roman  Coliseum,  dropped  in  the  centre  of  the  town, — 
there  are  we.  On  a  December  day,  when  I  was  there, 
it  was  as  warm  and  summerlike, — the  sunny  side  of  that 
old  ruin, — and  the  green  things  peeped  out  from  the 
wall,  as  fresh  and  blossoming,  as  if  Merrie  May  had  com- 
menced her  time  of  flowers.  And  the  birds  were  chat- 
tering out  of  all  the  corridors,  and  the  brown  stone  looked 
as  mellow  as  a  russet  apple,  in  the  glow  of  that  rich  South- 
ern atmosphere. 

The  trees  along  the  Boulevard, — running  here  through 
the  town, — wore  a  spring-like  air  (there  must  have  been 
olives  or  evergreen  oaks  among  them),  and  though  I  can 
not  say  if  the  peach-trees  were  in  bloom,  yet  I  know  I 
picked  a  bright  red  rose  in  the  garden  by  the  fountain, — 
the  great  Roman  fountain  which  supplies  the  whole  town 
with  water,  —  and  it  lies  pressed  for  a  witness  in  my 
journal  yet.  And  there  were  a  hundred  other  roses  in 
bloom  all  around, — and  a  little  girl  was  passing  through  the 
garden  at  the  time,  with  one  in  her  hair,  and  was  playing 


Nismes.  193 

with  another  in  her  hand.  And  the  old  soldier  who  limps, 
and  lives  in  the  little  cottage  at  the  gate  of  the  garden — as 
patrol,  was  sunning  himself  on  the  bench  by  the  door;  and 
a  Canary  bird  that  hung  over  it,  was  singing  as  blithely  in 
his  cage,  as  the  sparrows  had  been  singing  in  the  Ruin. 

And  what  was  there  in  that  charming  garden  spot  of 
Nismes,  with  its  wide  walks  and  shade  of  trees,  and  fresh 
with  the  sound  of  running  water,  and  the  music  of  birds  ? 
There  was  an  old  temple  of  Diana,  and  fountain  of  the 
Nymphs.  Both  were  embowered  in  trees,  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  which  lords  it  over  the  town. 

The  fountain  rises  almost  a  river,  and  alone  supplies 
a  city  of  40,000  inhabitants.  The  guide-books  will  tell 
one  that  it  is  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet  in  depth,  and  sur- 
rounded with  walls  of  masonry, — now  green  with  moss,  and 
clinging  herbs ; — and  that  from  this,  its  source,  it  passes 
in  a  gushing  flood  over  the  marble  floors  of  old  Roman 
baths,  as  smooth  and  exact  now,  as  the  day  on  which 
they  were  laid.  The  old  soldier  will  conduct  you  down, 
and  open  the  doorway,  so  that  you  *hiay  tread  upon  the 
smooth  marble,  where  trod  the  little  feet  of  the  unknown 
Roman  girls.  For  none  know  when  the  baths  were  built, 
or  when  this  temple  of  Diana  was  founded.  Not  even 
of  the  great  Arena,  remarkable  in  many  respects  as  the 
Roman  Coliseum,  is  there  the  slightest  classic  record. 
Nothing  but  its  own  gigantic  masonry  tells  of  its  origin. 

Upon  the  top  of  the  hill,  from  whose  foot  flows  the 
fountain,  is  still  another  ruin — a  high,  cumbrous  tower. 
And  as  I  wandered   under  it,  full  of  classic  fervor,  and 

J 


1  y  1  Fresh    Gleanings. 

looked  up, —  with  ancient  Rome  In  my  eye,  and  the  gold 
u-Egis,  and  the  banner  of  triumph, — behold,  an  old  woman 
with  a  red  handkerchief  tied  round  her  head,  was  spread- 
ing a  blue  petticoat  over  the  edge  of  the  tower,  to  dry. 

But  from  the  ground  beneath,  was  a  rich  view  over  the 
town  and  the  valley.  The  hill  and  the  garden  at  its  base, 
were  cloaked  with  the  deep  black  green  of  pir»s  and  firs ; 
beyond,  was  the  town,  just  veiled  in  the  light  smoke  of 
the  morning  fires; — here  peeped  through  a  steeple, — 
there,  a  heavy  old  tower,  and  looming  with  its  hundred 
arches,  and  circumference  of  broken  rocks — bigger  than 
them  all — was  the  amphitheatre  of  the  Latin  people,  whose 
language  and  monuments  alone  remain.  Beside  the  city, 
— through  an  atmosphere  clear  as  a  morning  on  the  valley 
of  the  Connecticut,  were  the  stiff,  velvety  tops  of  the  olive- 
orchards,  and  the  long,  brown  lines  of  vineyards  : — away 
the  meadows  swept,  with  here  and  there  over  the  level 
reach,  an  old  gray  town,  with  tall  presiding  castle,  or  a 
glittering  strip  of  the  bright  branches  of  the  Rhone. 

But  not  only  is  there  pleasant  December  sun,  and  sunny 
landscape  in  and  about  the  Provencal  town  of  Nismes 
— there  are  also  pleasant  streets  and  walks;  there  is  a 
beautiful  Roman  temple — La  Maison  Carre — than  which 
there  is  scarce  a  more  perfect  one  through  all  of  Italy, — 
among  the  neat  white  houses  of  the  city.  Within  it  are 
abundance  of  curiosities,  for  such  as  are  curious  about 
dates  and  inscriptions,  that  can  not  be  made  out;  and 
there  are  Roman  portals  still  left  in  the  vestiges  of  the 
Roman  walls. 


N  i  s  m  e  s.  195 

As  for  the  new  town,  there  are  clean,  good  Cafes,  and 
not  uncomfortable  hotels,  and  Restaurants  where  one  may 
learn  at  his  leisure,  to  eat  the  oil,  and  the  onions  of  Pro- 
vence. For  after-dinner  recreation,  one  may  stroll  into 
the  Cafes  along  the  miniature  Boulevards,  or  take  his  seat 
under  the  trees  in  front,  and  watch  the  gayly-dressed  till- 
ers of  the  olive  and  the  vine.  And  the  traveler  will  find 
at  Nismes — an  American  needs  it — the  impetus  of  party 
feeling,  stronger  than  in  most  towns  of  France ;  and  he 
may  join  himself  to  the  Protestant,  or  the  Catholic  fac- 
tion— the  Guelphs  and  Gh:bellines  of  the  little  town.  Or 
he  may  hold  aloof  from  both,  and  play  the  quiet  looker- 
on ;  and  he  will  find  the  ladies  of  the  Cathedral  side,  as 
pretty  as  their  neighbors  across  the  way. 

There  is  the  Grand  Theatre  for  such  as  wish  a  stall 
for  a  month ;  and  there  is  the  grander  Theatre  of  the  old 
Roman  Arene.  True,  the  manager  is  dead,  and  the  act- 
ors are  but  bats  and  lizards, — with  now  and  then  a  grum 
old  owl  for  prompter.  But  what  scenes  the  arched  open- 
ings blackened  by  the  fires  of  barbarians,*  and  the  stunt- 
ed trees  growing  where  Roman  ladies  sat, — paint  to  the 
eye  of  fancy  !  What  an  orchestra  the  birds  make  at  twi- 
light, and  the  recollections  make  always  ! 

It  was  better  than  Norma, — it  was  richer  than  Robert 
le  Diable,  to  sit  down  on  one  of  the  fragments  in  front  of^ 

*  In  the  eighth  century,  Charles  Martel,  after  filling  the  corridora 
of  the  Amphitheatre  with  combustible  materials,  set  them  on  fire- 
vainly  hoping  to  destroy  the  structure.     {Murray,  /\  471.) 


196  Fresh  Gleanings. 

where  was  the  great  entrance,  and  look  through  the  iron 
grating,  and  follow  the  perspective  of  corridors  opening 
into  the  central  Arena,  where  the  moonlight  shone  on  a 
still  December  night, — glimmering  over  the  ranges  of 
seats,  and  upon  the  shaking  leaves.  And  there  was  a 
rustle, — a  gentle  sighing  of  the  night  wind  among  the  crev- 
ices, that  one  could  easily  believe  was  the  echo  of  a  dis- 
tant chorus  behind  the  scenes : — and  so  it  was — a  chorus 
of  Great  Dead  Ones — mournful  and  slow — listened  to  by 
no  flesh-ear,  but  by  the  delicate  ear  of  Memory. 


Provence. 

fTMHERE  are  rides  about  Nismes.  There  is  Avignon 
•*-  with  its  brown  ramparts,  and  its  gigantic  Papal  tow- 
ers bundling  up  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhone,  only  a  half 
day's  ride  away ;  and  half  a  day  more  will  put  one 
down  at  the  fountain  of  Vaucluse ;— where,  if  it  be  sum- 
mer-time,-~and  it  is  summer-time  there  three  quarters  of 
the  year, — you  may  sit  down  under  the  shade  of  a  fig-tree, 
or  a  fir,  and  read, — undisturbed  save  by  the  dashing  of 
the  water  under  the  cliff,  the  fourteenth  Canzonet  of  Pe- 
trarch, commencing,— 

Chiare,  fresche  e  dolci  acque, 
Ove  le  belle  membra 
Pose  colei  che  sola  a  me  par  donna ; 
Gen  til  ramo,  ove  piacque 


Provence.  197 

(Con  sospir  mi  rimembra) 

A  lei  di  far  al  bel  fianco  colonna ; 

Erba  e  fior,  cbe  la  gonna 

Leggiadra  ricoverse 

Con  l'angelico  seno ; 

Aer  sacro  sereno, 

Ov'  Amor  co'  begli  occhi  il  cor  m'  aperse ; 

Date  udienza  insieme 

Alle  dolenti  mie  parole  estreme. 

And  if  the  poor  traveling  swain  be  cursed  with  the  same 
griefs,  and  shall  have  left  some  heart-killing  Laura  in  his 
Home-land,  he  can  there  disburden  himself,  and  run  on 
— it  is  a  quiet  place — nelle  medesime  dolenti  parole. 

Coming  back  at  nightfall,  he  will  have  a  mind  to  hunt 
through  the  narrow,  dim-lighted  streets  of  Avignon,  in 
search  of  the  tomb  of  Laura.  And  he  will  find  it  embow- 
ered with  laurels,  and  shut  up  by  a  thorn-hedge  and 
wicket ; — and  to  get  within  this,  he  will  ring  the  bell  of 
the  heavy,  sombre-looking  mansion  close  by,  when  a 
shuffling  old  man  with  keys  will  come  out,  and  do  the 
honors  of  the  tomb.  He  will  take  a  franc, — not  absolutely 
disdainfully,  but  with  a  world  of  sangfroid,  since  it  is  not 
for  himself,  (he  says,)  but  for  the  poor  children  within  the 
mansion, — which  is  a  foundling  hospital.  He  puts  the 
money  in  his  red  waistcoat  pocket,  suiting  to  the  action  a 
sigh — "  mes  pauvres  enfans  /"  Perhaps  you  will  add  in 
the  overflowing  of  your  heart — "  poor  children !" 

As  you  go  out  of  the  garden,  a  box  at  the  gate,  which 
had  escaped  your  notice,  solicits  offerings  in  behalf  of  the 
institution,  from  strangers  visiting  the  tomb.     The  box 


198  Fresh   Gleanings. 

has  a  lock  and  key, — the  old  man  does  not  keep  the 
key.  You  have  a  sudden  suspicion  of  his  red  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  sigh  as  you  go  out, — les  pauvres  enfans  ! 

Pont  du  Gard  is  the  finest  existing  remain  of  a  Roman 
acqueduct.  It  spans  a  quiet,  deep  stream, — good  for 
either  fishing  or  bathing.  Profusion  of  wild  flowers  grow 
about  it  and  over  it,  and  fig-trees  and  brambles  make  a 
thicket  together,  on  the  slope  that  goes  down  the  water. 

One  may  walk  over  the  top  of  the  ruin, — two  yards 
wide,  without  parapet  or  rail,  and  look  over  into  the 
depth  three  hundred  feet  below.  The  nerves  must  be 
strong  to  endure  it — then  the  enjoyment  is  full.  Less 
than  half  a  day's  ride  will  bring  one  from  the  Pont  du 
Gard,  to  the  Hotel  du  Luxembourg  of  Nismes. 

Montpellier  is  in  Provence, — the  city  of  summer-like 
winters;  and  upon  the  river  is  Aries,  with  its  Arena 
— larger  even  than  that  of  Nismes,  but  far  less  perfect : 
and  its  pretty  women — famous  all  over  France — wear  a 
mischievous  look  about  them,  and  the  tie  of  their  red 
turbans,  as  if  coquetry  were  one  of  their  charms. 

It  is  a  strange,  mixed-up  town, — that  of  Aries, — ruins 
and  dirt,  and  narrowness,  and  grandeur — an  old  church 
in  whose  yard  they  dig  up  Roman  coffins,  and  a  rolling 
bridge  of  boats.  Not  any  where  in  France  are  there 
dirtier  and  more  crooked  streets;  not  any  where  such 
motley  array  of  shops-  amid  the  filth, — red  turbans  and 
meat,  bread  and  blocks,  old  coin  and  silks.  Within  the 
Museum  itself,  are  collected  more  odd  scraps  of  anti- 
quity than  can  be  found  elsewhere  together :  there  are 


Provence.  199 

lead  pipes,  and  stone  fountains, — old  inscriptions,  and  iron 
spikes,  and  the  noblest  monument  of  all  is  a  female  head 
that  has  no  nose; — but  the  manager  very  ingeniously 
supplies  with  his  hand  the  missing  feature. 

Opposite  the  doors  of  this  Museum  stands  an  obelisk 
of  granite,  which  was  fished  out  of  the  Rhone,  and  boasts 
a  high  antiquity ;  and  upon  its  top  is  a  brilliant  sun  with 
staring  eyes.  To  complete  the  extraordinary  grouping, 
— upon  another  side  of  the  same  square,  is  a  church  with 
the  strangest  bas-relief  over  its  central  doorway,  that 
surely  madcap  fancy  ever  devised.  It  is  a  representation 
of  the  Last  Judgment ;  on  the  right,  the  angels  are  leading 
away  the  blessed  in  pairs ;  and  on  the  left  a  grinning 
Devil  with  horns,  and  with  a  stout  rope  passed  over  his 
shoulder,  and  clenched  in  his  teeth,  is  tugging  away 
at  legions  of  condemned  souls. 

There  is  rare  Gothic  sculpture  within  some;  old  clois- 
ters adjoining ;  and  a  marble  bas-relief  within  the  church, 
with  a  Virgin  and  Child  in  glory,  was — I  say  it  on 
the  authority  of  an  ingenious  valet-de-placc — of  undoubt- 
ed Roman  origin. 

Ancient  sarcophagi  may  be  seen  here  and  there  in  the 
streets,  serving  as  reservoirs  at  the  fountains ;  and  many 
a  peasant  of  the  adjoining  country  makes  the  coffin  of  a 
Roman  noble  his  water-trough. 

There  belongs  another  antiquity  to  Provence,  besides 
that  of  Roman  date  :— it  is  that  of  the  gay,  chivalrous 
times  of  William  IX.,  Count  of  Poitou,  and  all  the  gallant 
Troubadours  who  came  after  him.     Then,  helmets  glit- 


200  Fresh   Gleanings. 

tered  over  the  Provencal  plains,  and  ladies  wove  silken 
pennants  in  princely  halls.  Then,  the  tournament  drew 
its  throngs,  and  knights  contended  not  only  with  their 
lances  for  martial  fame,  but  with  their  songs  for  the  ears 
of  love.  Even  monarchs, — Barbarossa,  and  Cceur  de 
Lion — vied  with  Troubadours ;  and  the  seat  of  the  Pro- 
vencal court,  was  the  great  centre  of  Southern  chivalry. 
Aries  had  its  court  of  love,* — more  splendid  than  now, 
and  its  arret  d?  amour  was  more  binding  than  the  charms 
of  the  brightest  eyes,  that  shine  in  Provence  to-day. 

Little  remains  of  the  luxurious  tastes  of  the  old  livers 
at  Aries.  The  Cafe,  dirty  and  dim,  assembles  the  chivalry 
of  the  city ;  and  a  stranger  Western  knight,  in  place  of 
baronial  hall,  is  entertained  at  the  Hotel  du  Forum; — 
where,  with  excess  of  cheatery,  they  give  him, — for  St. 
Peray, — a  weak,  carbonated  Moselle. 

Let  no  one  judge  of  the  flat,  sand  surface  of  Provence, 
by  the  rich  descriptions  of  the  Mysteries  of  Udolfo ;  nor  let 
the  lover  of  ballad  poetry,  reckon  upon  the  peasant  patois, 
as  having  the  sweet  flow  of  Raymond,  or  Bertrand  de  Born. 

*  The  reader  may  form  an  idea  of  the  old  court  of  love,  by  a 
decision  I  will  quote  of  a  Countess  of  Champagne,  in  the  time  of 
Louis  XIV. 

The  question  to  be  decided,  was — whether  a  married  couple  could 
love  each  other  truly? — "Nous  disons," — said  the  Countess, — "et 
assurons  par  la  teneur  des  presentes,  que  l'amour  ne  peut  etendre  ses 
droits  sur  deux  personnes  mariees.  En  efFet,  les  amants  s'accordent 
tout  mutuellement  et  gratuitement,  sans  etre  contraints  par  aucune 
necessity,  tandis  que  les  epoux  sont  tenus  par  devoir,"  &c.  A  very 
comfortable  doctrine  for  married  men ! 


Marseilles.  201 


Marseilles. 

It  MARSEILLES  is  the  old  Massilia, — Rome's  client, 
-*-»-■-  and  Rome's  ally.  Cicero  has  rolled  the  encomium 
of  its  ancient  people  into  his  round-sounding  genitives ; — 
fortissimorum,  fidelissimorum,  sociorum,  most  brave  and 
faithful  friends.* 

One  way  in  which  they  showed  themselves  faithful, 
was  in  shipment  of  Gallic  slaves  to  adorn  the  feasts  anc 
the  fights  of  Rome : — hence  Macauley  in  his  blazing  lay 
of  Horatius : — 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  tiremes, 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  and  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  in  speaking  of  the  city,  was  pleased  to  call 
Marseilles  la  plus  jolie  ville  de  France.  It  must  have 
changed  very  much  since  the  daughter  of  Madame  kept 
her  home  at  Chateau  Grignan.  It  certainly  is  not  the 
prettiest   city  in  France   now; — besides,   it   enjoys   the 


*  Est  enim  urbs  Massiliu,  de  qua  ante  dixi,  fortissimorum, 

fidelissimorumque  sociorum,  qui  Gallicorum  bellorum  pericula,  po- 
pulo  Romano  coriis,  remisque  compensarunt.  (Oratio  pro  M.  Four 
tcjo,  Sec.  I.) 

»* 


202  Fresh   Gleanings. 

reputation  of  having  the  most  extravagant  hotels,  and 
the  most  execrable  climate  in  the  kingdom.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  it  a  reputation  as  well  deserved,  as  its 
reputation  for  beauty  in  the  time  of  Louis, — or  for  fidelity 
in  the  time  of  the  Great  Consul.  A  bill,  as  long  as  that  of 
the  Becace*  they  give  you  at  dinner,  is  evidence  of  the  first ; 
and  my  recollection  of  swelteiing  up  the  hill  above  the 
town,  under  a  sun  that  scorched  in  December, — not  twen- 
ty-four hours  after  landing  shiveringly  with  two  overcoats, 
from  the  Aries  Diligence, — is  testimony  for  the  climate. 

It  runs  in  short-hand,  with  a  classical  annotation  from 
the  prologue  to  Plautus,  in  my  journal ;  and  it  will  serve 
to  show  how  a  careless  traveler's  journal  is  made  up  ;-— 
thus : — 

Marseilles  ;  wretched  climate, — hotels  dear. 

An  empty  pocket,  and  cold  in  the  head  : —  j 

Vos,  vos  mihi  testes  estis  me  verum  loqui. 

Yet  Marseilles  is  not  without  a  character  of  splendor 
amid  its  barrenness.  For  barren  its  country  surely  is. 
It  is  situated, — not  as  some  suppose,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Rhone, — but  some  distance  Eastward  ;  and  in  place  of  the 
salt  marshes  which  stretch  around  the  low-lying  mouths 
of  the  river,  are  bleak  hills  sweeping  semicircularly 
about  the  city.  These  hills  show  only  here  and  there, 
patches  of  stinted  olive  trees,  and  there  is  no  healthy 

*  A  sort  of  snipe,  common  in  Provence,  and  very  good  eating, — 
oetter  digested,  than  the  account  you  get  of  them  in  the  "  reckoning." 


Marseilles.  203 

greenness  visible — save  the  sea.     The  basin  in  which  the 

town  lies  is  but  a  bed  of  sand. Imagine  now,  tne  most 

accessible  portion  of  this  sand  level,  covered  thick  with 
houses,  and  they  piling  back  to  the  first  lift  of  the  bare 
hills  behind ; — imagine  those  hills  spotted  all  over  white 
with  the  little  country -places  of  merchants,  where  they  go 
in  summer-time,  in  the  hope, — an  extravagant  one, — of 
escaping  the  mosquitoes,  and  catching  at  odd  intervals,  a 
breath  of  the  sea  air ; — imagine  further,  the  hill  bearing 
back,  and  breaking  on  the  sky  in  bold,  bare  outline,  with 
here  and  there  a  gray-green  streak  of  olive  trees, — and 
you  have  that  general  appearance  of  the  place,  which 
one  gets  from  the  edge  of  the  harbor — looking  Landward. 

In  winter,  the  Mistral,  a  cold  Nor'wester,  blows  over 
the  hills,  and  in  ten  hours  time,  may  be  succeeded  by  a 
soft,  Southern,  insinuous  breeze, — coming  straight  over 
the  Middle  Ocean,  with  all  its  Afric  temperature.  In 
summer-time  there  is  scarce  wind  at  all,  and  as  little  of 
summer  rain  as  of  summer  wind  ;  the  hills  grow  brown 
and  are  scorched, — the  olive-leaves  turn  yellow  and  drop 
in  July, — the  sun  is  reflected  hot  from  the  hot  sand,  and 
hotter  from  the  white-sided  houses, — the  water  in  the 
port  is  shut  up  and  foul,  for  there  is  no  tide  to  move  it ; 
— indeed,  I  am  quite  sure,  there  must  have  been  more 
shade  or  less  sun  at  Marseilles  in  the  time  of  Sevigne\ 
or  she  would  never  have  called  it,  "a  pretty  city  !" 

It  is  not  however,  as  I  said,  without  its  splendor; — 
there  is  a  long  thoroughfare  lined  with  lofty  houses,  and 
ending  Northward  with  a  triumphal  arch  ; — there  is  its 


204  Fresh    Gleanings. 

port,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  town,  and  filled  with  ships 
of  every  colored  flag ; — there  are  the  quays,  thronged 
with  all  the  costliness  of  the  East  and  the  West ; — there 
are  hotels — in  exterior  furnishing  perhaps  the  most  ele- 
gant of  France,  and  the  Cafes  are  palaces. 

The  character  of  those  who  visit  Marseilles  is  essential- 
ly cosmopolitan ;  and  at  the  Hotel  d'Orient,  you  may  sit 
at  its  magnificent  table-d'hote,  with  sallow-faced  Dons 
from  Barcelona, — with  illustrissimi  Signori  of  Naples  01 
Genoa, — with  fat,  blubbering  old  Turks,  with  long  mous- 
tache and  turbans, — with  tall,  athletic  Moors, — with 
Greeks  in  crimson  and  blue-tasseled  caps, — with  sober, 
gray-coated  Scotchmen  ;  and  you  may  hear  every  lan- 
guage, from  the  mellow  flow  of  Provencal,  and  the  dolcis- 
s'mii  accenti  of  Tuscany,  to  the  cracking  consonants  of 
Russia,  and  business-talking  Dutch.  Gifted  in  tongues 
must  the  pilot  be,  who  would  have  intercourse  with  all 
the  ship-masters  that  sail  into  the  harbor  of  Marseilles. 
And  the  captain  who  pushes  his  vessel  out  of  the  crowded 
port,  where  all  is  confusion,  will  listen  to  oaths  in  Dutch, 
and  bravado  in  Basque. 

There  is  a  little  chapel  upon  a  rocky  hill  overlooking 
all  the  city,  and  the  port,  and  the  bay,  and  a  long  vista  of 
blue  sea,  stretching  over  toward  the  Spanish  shores, 
where  eveiy  stranger  in  the  city  goes,  to  see  the  votive 
offerings  that  have  been  made  to  the  Virgin,  who  presides 
at  its  shrine. 

The  sailors  call  her  Notre-Dame  de  la  Garde,  and  he* 
image  of  olive-wood  is  preserved  at  the  chapel.     They 


Marseilles.  205 

pray  to  her  in  times  of  difficulty,  whether  by  sea  or  land , 
and  in  the  event  of  a  happy  issue  to  their  prayers,  they 
bring  up  some  token, — it  may  be  a  picture  of  the  sick- 
bed,— it  may  be  the  rope's  end  that  saved  one  from  drown- 
ing,— it  may  be  the  crutch  of  a  healed  cripple, — and  de- 
posit it  at  her  shrine.  The  walls  are  covered  with  such 
offerings, — and  many  is  the  poor  sailor's  mother  that  toils 
up  that  rocky  hill-side  on  evenings  that  threaten  storm,  to 
drop  a  prayer  before  the  Virgin,  for  her  wandering  boy. 

It  was  a  sunny  day,  and  quiet  when  I  was  there, 

and  a  light,  warm,  blue  haze  lay  over  the  city,  and  over  the 
bay ;  and  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  scarce  rippled, 
and  the  old  monks  that  dwell  up  there,  were  chatting  bare- 
headed under  the  fig-trees  that  grow  out  of  the  terrace  by 
the  chapel, — and  the  goats  and  white  kids  that  live  upon 
the  hill  were  lying  downin  the  shadows  of  the  rocks, — 
panting.  Still  there  were  old  and  feeble  worshippers, 
who  had  toiled  up  from  the  town,  and  were  kneeling  on 
the  damp  pavement  within,  giving  utterance  to  their 
hearts'  wishes,  in  simple  Faith — common  attribute  of  us 
all — an  inward  sense  of  a  Divinity,  that  shapes  our  ends, 

Rough  hew  them  how  we  will,—" 

and  if  it  be  strong  in  those  who  seem  weak  by  reason  of 
Ignorance, — it  only  shames  the  more,  those  in  whom  it  is 
weak,  though  they  seem  strong  by  reason  of  Knowledge. 
There  is  the  Prado  at  Marseilles,  where  one  may  walk, 
when  the  sun  is  going  down  over  the  dim  line  of  the 
shores  that  stretch  Westward, — or  the  moon  rising  out  of 


206  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  bosom  of  the  sea ;  but  the  trees  are  small,  and  the 
ground  sandy.  They  are  however  busy, — and  have  been 
for  years,  bringing  down  a  river  from  the  country, — the 
unruly  Durance, — into  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  enough 
of  it  to  water  the  sides  of  all  the  hills,  and  cover  them  with 
a  little  of  that  healthful  greenness,  which  surely  does  not 
belong  to  them  now. 

When  this  is'effected,  and  the  plane-trees  of  the  Prado 
are  grown  larger,  and  streams  of  water  lay  the  dust  of  the 
thoroughfares,  Marseilles  will  have  charms  which  not  an- 
other European  city  of  180,000  inhabitants  is  without. 

Possibly  in  that  time  I  may  be  there  again, — and  go 
down  again  to  the  rocky  heights,  Southward  of  the  town, 
where  a  brigade  of  soldiery,  fitting  for  the  Algerine  war- 
fare, was  making  a  mimic  war  among  the  cliffs; — their 
battalions  scattered  over  level  and  height ; — their  forces 
retreating  and  dispersing,  and  gathering  to  the  sound  of 
a  bugle,  and  their  musketry  crackling  against  the  faces 
of  the  bare  limestone,  with  double  sound.  Perhaps,  too, 
I  may  see  again  the  happy,  bright-eyed  boy,  who  was 
with  me  then,  and  who  played  along  the  edge  of  the  blue 
rolling  Mediterranean,  and  clapped  his  hands  at  the  dis- 
charges of  the  musketry,  and  shouted  when  the  troops  ran 
to  the  attack. 

Ah,  he  will  have  grown  older, — and  I,  perhaps, 

grown  old ! 


France  Rural.         207 


France  Rural. 

A  belle  France  has  little  of  what  we  call  country. 
-1—  beauty,  of  which  to  boast.  The  pride  of  its  Provin- 
cial cities,  is  to  approach,  near  as  may  be,  the  splendors  of 
the  capital ;  and  no  town  is  esteemed  beautiful,  except  it 
have  its  H6tel  de  Ville,  its  Boulevards,  and  its  theatre. 
Many  a  man  who  has  worried  away  days  and  nights  in 
traversing  French  territory,  has  his  memory  haunted  only 
with  vast  plains,  seemingly  of  interminable  extent.  The 
pretty  country  of  the  Auvergne,  with  its  Puy  de  Dome, 
and  mountain  streams,  is  half  unknown  to  the  traveler; 
the  wildness  of  the  Pyrennean  scenery  is  grafted  upon 
his  recollections  of  Spain ;  and  the  richness  of  the  Juras, 
piling  with  their  mantles  of  fir,  out  of  the  fair  plains  of 
Burgundy,  is  all  forgotten  amid  the  crowning  magnifi- 
cence of  Switzerland. 

The  Frenchman  is  not  a  lover  of  the  country  ;  and  the 
men  are  every  where — 

Who  never  caught  a  noontide  dream 
From  murmur  of  a  running  stream. 

Even  the  peasant  has  scarce  begun  to  love  the  fields  on 
which  he  was  born,  and  on  which  he  reaps,  when  a  wave 
of  Conscription  comes  rolling  along  ; — he  is  enlisted  in  the 
Grand  Army,  and  is  borne  away  on  the  soldier-billow  to 


208  Fresh   Gleanings. 

Paris,  or  Bordeaux,  or  Brest ;  and  comes  back,  if  at  all, 
with  such  visions  of  cities  in  his  mind — such  gorgeous 
tales  for  the  young  country  folk,  as  utterly  destroy  what- 
ever may  have  existed  in  their  bosoms,  of  rural  love. 

One  meets  with  no  such  grand  old  parks,  as  are  scatter- 
ed over  the  surface  of  England  ;  and  where  you  see  some 
pretending  chateau  of  a  court  favorite  under  the  Old 
Regime, — decay  is  upon  it.  Its  grounds  are  rank  of  neg- 
lect ; — the  weeds  are  growing  in  the  court ; — the  entrance 
gates  are  off  their  hinges  ;  and  the  pheasants  go  sneaking 
through  the  shrubbery  of  the  terrace. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  you  may  happen  upon  some  such 
old  bit  of  forest,  as  that  of  Fontainbleau, — but  it  is  rarely ; 
and  it  is  rare  that  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  wild  eye  of 
a  deer  peering  through  a  thicket ;  it  is  rare  that  you  start 
up  a  whirring  covey  of  partridges,  from  under  shelter  of 
a  hedge; — rare  that  you  see  a  hare  go  galloping  over 
new-started  grain. 

As  for  wayside  brooks,  the  ordinary  traveler  finds  none 
of  them.  Even  to  French  literature,  is  fresh  landscape 
almost  unknown  ;  scarce  one  is  to  be  found  in  its  great 
Epic — the  Henriad.  Delille  has  indeed,  sung  of  Gar- 
dens, but  he  quitted  the  beautiful  Auvergne,  to  make 
Paris  his  Eden ;*  and  left  the  Georgics  for  "La  Con- 
versation :"  and  Bernardin  St.  Pierre  crossed  the  ocean, 


*  After  the  death  of  Delille  appeared  his  "  Depart  d'Eden"  (Paris.) 
His  "  Homme  des  Champs,"  a  more  strictly  rural  poem  than  "  Les 
Jardins,"  was  written  during  a  residence  in  Switzerland. 


France    Rural.  209 

to  find  a  grass-plat  for  his  sweet  story  of  Paul  and 
Virginia. 

The  French  are  a  people  of  socialities ;  retirement 
would  slay  them.  To  know  them,  one  must  go  to  their 
cities ;  and  to  know  them  best,  one  must  go  to  the  city  of 
their  cities. 

Not  so  of  their  neighbors  the  other  side   of  the 

channel ;  and  I  can  not  help  recurring  a  moment,  in  view 
of  the  contrast,  to  the  green  fields  of  England.  For  I  love 
them ; — and  I  love  the  quiet  by-ways,  and  the  white  blos- 
soming hawthorn  hedges,  and  the  little  stiles,  that  take 
you  over  by  smooth-beaten  paths,  under  proud  old  trees, 
into  the  shadow  of  tall,  ivy-covered  mansions  ; — and  I  love 
the  gray  roofs  of  cottages,  that  are  covered  half  over  with 
stores  of  woodbine,  and  the  clean-kept  shrubbery,  and  the 
high  trees,  with  flocks  of  bold,  black  rooks,  circling  round 
and  round.  Who  that  has  seen  such  scenes  along  the 
Exe,  or  the  Plym,  or  the  Wye,  or  by  the  banks  of  Der- 
wentwater,  or  Windermere,  but  feels  his  heart  leaping 
beyond  control  at  the  remembrance  1 

Who  that  has  seen  an  English  cottage,  in  the  lap  of  an 
English  landscape,  but — if  he  has  not  yet  irreparably 
lost  his  hold  upon  his  unfettered,  fortunate  youth-age — 
finds  its  image  stealing, — whether  he  will  or  no, — into  all  his 
wildest  and  maddest  pleasure  dreams  about  the  future  1 
Who  but  cherishes  a  dreamy  hope  to  plant  it  in  a  Home- 
land, and  to  plant  with  it, — let  him  have  been,  long  as 
he  may,  a  Wanderer — a  home  feeling  ; — to  have  paths 
smoothed  by  his  tread, — gates  opening  at  his  touch, — to 


210  Fresh-  Gleanings. 

have  dog  bounding  to  his  call, — to  have  horse,  and  gun, 

and  rod, aye,  and  better  than  all,  to  have  under  the 

gray  roof  of  the  cottage,  a  quiet  hearth -place,  that  shall 
own  him, — and  him  only,  for  Master? 

You  smile,  Mary. 

Yet  it  is  even  so,  that  we  travelers  dream ;  and  for  my 
part,  I  dream  on, — of  fire  craokling  upon  a  clean  hearth, 
as  it  used  to  do  in  our  country-home  ;  and  (still  dream- 
ing,) Carlo  stretches  his  glossy-coated  limbs  before  it, 
upon  the  Chamois-skin,  which  I  brought  away  on  my 
shoulders,  out  of  the  Valley  of  Chamouni ; — and  the  light 
of  the  blazing  fire  goes  wavering  over  the  well-swept 
floor,  and  twinkles  on  the  varnished  oak  beams,  and  flick- 
ers across  the  portraits  of  the  loved  ones — gone  ! 

Whither,  pray,  am  I  running] 

I  was  saying  of  the  French,  that  they  had  no  rural  feel 
ingj  I  have  said  before,  that  they  had  little  home-feeling 
The  two  feelings,  where  they  exist, — as  you  see, — touch 
each  other. 

Now,  France,  adieu ! 


21   (Gallop   ttyrougl)   0outl)ern 
Austria, 


A   GALLOP   THROUGH   SOUTHERN 
AUSTRIA. 


Illyria,   Carynthia,   Styria. 

OIOUTH  and  East  of  Vienna,  stretches  a  great  and  fer- 
**-'  tile  country,  little  known  to  the  trading  world ; — and 
save  at  the  hands  of  some  few  such  old-fashioned  travelers 
as  Clarke,  and  Bright,  and  Beaudant,  little  known  to  the 
reading  world.  On  the  North,  it  is  bounded  by  the  Car- 
pathian mountains,  which  here  and  there  thrust  down 
their  rocky  fingers,  and  lay  their  league-wide,  giant  grasp 
upon  the  plains.  Eastward, — Wallachia  and  Moldavia  lie 
between  it,  and  Russia,  and  the  Sea.  South  and  West  it 
stoops  down  to  the  level  of  the  Adriatic,  and  follows  the 
rugged  bank  of  the  Save  as  far  as  Belgrade  ;  and  sweeps 
along  the  North  shore  of  the  Danube,  till  the  Danube 
turns  into  the  Turkish  land,  and  turbans  and  sabres  are 
worn  on  the  North  and  the  South  banks  of  the  river.  To 
the  Northwest,  this  country  leans  its  fir-clad  shoulder  on 
the  magnificent  mountains  of  the  Tyrol ; — and  beyond  the 


214  Fresh    Gleanings. 

Tyrol,  is  the  kingdom  of  Bavaria,  whose  capital  is  fair 
Munich,  seated  on  the  lifted  plains. 

Hungary, — fbr  that  is  the  name  of  this  country,  is  popu- 
lated with  an  industrious,  well-made,  hardy,  adventurous 
people.  They  speak  a  rich,  musical,  flowing  language, 
of  Eastern  forms,  under  Roman  dress — not  easy  to  be 
learned.  They  have  a  nobility  and  a  peasantry,  and  the 
last  can  not  be  land-owners ;  so  that  a  system  obtains  of 
dependence  so  entire,  as  to  make  a  curious  little  relic  of 
the  old  feudal  socialism, — a  very  tit-bit  for  the  philosoph- 
ical harangues  of  Governor  Young  and  the  Anti-renters. 
There  is  a  king,  too.  who  rules  by  courtesy,  through  a 
chancery  at  Vienna . 

The  kingdom  has  records  not  ignoble, — for  it  has  reach- 
ed even  to  the  Black  Sea,  and  sometime  to  the  Baltic.  It 
has  had  Sigismund  for  ruler, — a  sort  of  Edward  the  Con- 
fessor,— and  Matthias  Corvinus,  of  whom  this  glorious 
memory  remains,  in  way  of  proverb,—"  King  Matthias  is 
dead,  and  Justice  is  dead  with  him." 

Pesth,  a  city  of  50,000  inhabitants,  is  the  capital  of 
Hungary ;  it  lies  along  the  Danube,  over  against  the  old 
capital — Buda.  Both  cities  have  their  libraries  and 
learned  men. 

But  the  true  Hungarian  belongs  to  the  country,  and 
not  to  the  city.  Agriculture  is  his  profession,  and  for  its 
pursuit  he  has  as  rich  fields  as  are  to  be  found  in  Europe. 
He  cultivates  maize,  besides  the  grains  of  the  North.  He 
has  the  richest  of  pasturage ;  and  when  a  herdsman,  his 
flocks  count  by  thousands.     As  a  hunter,  he  has  bears, 


Illyria,  C  a  r  y  n  t  u  i  a,   Styria.       215 

and  foxes,  and  deer,  upon  the  mountains, — and  salmon  and 
otter  in  the  rivers.  As  a  miner,  he  has  every  mineral  of 
ordinary  traffic,  as  well  as  the  opal  and  chalcedony. 

In  this  trade  he  is  fleeced  by  German  Jews,  and 
Greeks ;  and  if  some  enterprising  New  Englander  could, 
under  favor  of  Prince  Metternich  and  the  king,  introduce 
American  "  knick-knacks"  to  that  simple  people,  loving 
hunting  and  dancing  better  than  trade, — I  am  quite  sure 
he  could  negotiate  such  exchanges  for  alum,  and  Cor- 
dova boots,  and  zinc,  and  chalcedony,  as  would  speedily 
make  his  fortune. 

But  the  country  will  charm  a  New  England  eye,  be 
sides  such  as  is  quickened  with  the  furor  of  trade ;  for  its 
hills  and  its  valleys  will  make  for  it,  a  home-like  image. 

There  are  the  same  green  glades — the  same  spurs 

of  old  forest  standing  out  upon  the  mountains — the  same 
valleys  with  gravel-bottomed  books — the  same  spots  of 
orchard  land,  and  checks  of  grain,  and  lines  of  tufted  corn 
— the  same  loose  boulders  lying  in  meadows — and  the 
same  peaks  of  gray  granite,  cropping  loftily  up — stark 
through  Secondary,  and  Tertiary,  and  Alluvion. 

There  belongs  a  simple  quietude  to  this  people,  which 
is  not  less  charming.  They  go  little  abroad.  You  scarce 
see  them, — save  the  tall  grenadiers  enrolled  for  defence  of 
the  Lombard  kingdom,  and  an  occasional  braided  coat  in 
the  streets  of  Prague,  or  of  Vienna.  They  fish, — they 
hunt, — they  cultivate  their  land.  The  corrupt  civilization 
which  sweeps  in  the  track  of  travel  has  not  overrun  them. 
Those  intent  upon  the  glories  of  the  East,  indeed  pass 


216  Fresh    Gleanings. 

down  to  Belgrade ;  but  it  is  upon  the  Austrian  boats  of 
the  Danube. 

Their  dress  has  simple  quaintness ; — you  lose  sight  of 
the  method  of  enlightened  Europe.  Habits  too,  are  old, 
and  partake  of  their  earnest  character.  Old  legends  live 
in  night-songs ; — old  wrongs  are  redressed  with  usury. 

A  traveler  brings  always  home  with  him,  go  where 

he  will,  a  multitude  of  regrets ;  and  this  is  one  of  mine, — 
that  I  could  not  have  ranged  through  the  Eastern  valleys 
of  Hungary, — down  to  Semlin, — up  to  Transylvania, — 
back  through  the  vineyards  of  Tokay,  and  the  worm- 
eaten  libraries  of  Pesth. 

But  it  is  noted  down,  against  the  time  when  another 
rambling  humor  shall  make  me  acquainted  with  the  dress 
of  the  Osmanlee  $  and  my  knapsack  in  the  corner,  that  has 
been  wetted  with  me  under  the  snows  of  the  great  St. 
Bernard, — that  has  served  me  as  seat  on  the  dreary  pass 
of  the  Furca,  and  that  has  clung  to  my  back  in  kind  com- 
panionship, as  I  looked  over  from  the  Gemmi,  upon 
Monte  Rosa — rolling  its  swelling  base  under  clustered 
hamlets,  far  down  into  the  Savoyard  valley, — shall  per- 
haps one  day,  serve  me  as  well  upon  the  blue  Carpathians. 

Meantime,— until  the  journey  be  made, — until  a  laurel- 
leaf  or  two  be  gathered,  to  add  to  this  poor  Sheaf, — until 
I  appear  in  the  dignity  of  sober  octavo,  made  up  from  the 
wildnesses  of  that  wild  Hungarian  region,  and  the  mouldy 
Legend-books  of  Buda,  the  reader  may  whet  his  appetite 
with  only  this  swift,  crazy  gallop  through  the  Western 
provinces  of  Illyria, — Carynthia, — Styria. 


The   Post   Coach.  217 


The    Post   Coach. 

FT1  HERE  was  a  frouzy-haired,  stout  man,  not  a  year 
-*"  ago,  at  the  Hdtel  Mettemich,  at  Trieste,  who  se- 
cured for  our  party — Cameron,  Monsieur  le  Comte  B., 
and  myself — one  of  the  Government  post-coaches,  to 
go  on  to  the  Austrian  capital,  just  as  lazily  as  we  wished. 
The  two-headed  black  eagle  ou  the  yellow  coach  door, 
gave  us  the  dignity  of  Government  patronage : — a  huge 
roll  of  paper  we  earned,  would  secure  us  relays  of  horses 
in  every  post-town  between  Trieste  and  Gratz  \  and  our 
profound  ignorance  of  the  language,  would  insure  to 
every  begging,  red-coated  postillion,  a  plump  '*  Go  to  the 
devil,"  from  our  wicked  friend  Cameron. 

Our  coach  was  chartered  for  the  whole  route,  and 
we  could  loiter  as  long  as  we  chose,  provided  we  could 
make  the  postman  understand  our  wretched  German,  or 
ourselves  understand  their  wretched  French  or  Italian. 

Every  European  traveler  has  heard  of  the  awful  caves 
of  Adelsbeig  in  Illyria, — and  to  the  awful  caves  of  Adels- 
berg  we  wanted  to  go. 

There  was  a  fourth  seat  to  our  coach,  and  it  was 
not  filled.  We  were  on  the  look-out  for  a  good-humored 
fellow,  to  make  up  our  number,  and  to  pay  his  fourth  of 
the  footing.  We  broached  the  subject  to  a  table  full  at 
the    Mettemich,   who   had  just   come   in,   with  terribly 

K 


218  Fresh   Gleanings. 

bronzed  faces  and  queer  Egyptian  caps,  from  the  Alex- 
andria steamer.  Whether  it  was  that  Vienna  did  not 
really  lie  in  their  paths,  or  whether  they  had  grown 
in  the  East,  distrustful  of  proposals  so  peremptorily 
made,  I  do  not  know, — but  not  one  of  them  would 
listen  to  us.  In  this  dilemma,  our  Sancho,  the  frouzy- 
haired  man,  offered  us  the  services  of  a  Polish  courier, 
who  had  just  left  the  suite  of  a  Russian  princess  in  Sicily, 
and  who  was  now  making  his  way  back  to  the  North. 
But  on  consideration,  we  were  unanimously  of  opinion, 
that  our  equipage  would  not  suffer  by  denying  the  royal 
applicant ;  and  that  the  gratuity  of  the  vacant  seat  would 
be  better  kept  in  reserve,  than  squandered  in  so  sudden 
chanty,  as  helping  the  poor  devil  of  a  Pole,  on  his  way  to 
Cracow. 

We  refused  him.  We  paid  the  stout  man  his  fees,  and 
bade  him  good  morning.  The  porter  waved  his  hand  to 
the  postillion ;  the  postillion  cracked  his  whip ;  and  so, 
we  dashed  out  of  the  court  of  the  great  inn  of  Met- 
ternich.  And  so,  we  passed, — slow  and  toilingly,  over 
those  mountains  that  shut  up  the  city  of  Trieste  and 
its  bay,  from  that  part  of  Southern  Austria  which  is 
called  Hungary.  The  long,  blue  waters  of  the  Adriatic 
stretched  out  in  the  sunshine  behind  us,  and  the  shores 
of  Dalmatia  lifted  out  of  their  Eastern  edge.  We  made 
the  rascal  that  drove  us  stop  his  horses  a  moment,  when 
we  had  gained  the  full  height.  Thence  we  could  see — 
one  side,  the  little  dot  of  a  city  where  we  ate  so  villainous 
a  dinner  the  day  before  at  the  Metternich — glistening  by 


Beggar    Boys.  219 

the  side  of  the  Gulf  of  Venice.  The  othei  way, — looking 
North  and  East,  we  saw  green  Hungary.  Down,  down 
we  went  galloping  into  its  bosom — beautiful-hill-sided — 
sweet-sounding  Illyria. 

In  the  caserne  at  Venice,  and  all  through  Austrian 
Lombardy,  I  had  seen  the  tall,  Hunnish  grenadiers  with 
their  braid-covered  coats ;  now  I  saw  them  loitering  at 
home.  And  at  each  post  station,  they  sat  on  benches 
beside  the  log  cottages,  and  stretched  their  fine  muscular 
limbs  lazily  into  the  sunshine.  While  I  was  looking  at 
the  grenadiers,  Cameron  was  feasting  his  eyes  on  the  full 
proportions  of  the  ruddy  Hungarian  girls.  He  told  me 
they  had  bright,  open  faces,  and  a  dashing  air,  and  moved 
off  under  the  trees  that  embowered  the  cottages,  with  the 
air  of  princesses. 


Beggar   Boys. 

4  T  the  very  first  stopping-place  after  we  had  gone 
-^*-  over  the  hills,  there  came  up  to  me  such  a  winning 
little  beggar  as  never  took  my  money  before.  Italy,  with 
all  its  carita,  and  pely  amore  di  Santa  Maria,  makes  one 
hard-hearted.  I  kept  my  money  in  my  breast-pocket, 
buttoned  tight  over  my  heart.  I  had  learned  to  walk 
boldly  about,  without  loosing  a  button  for  a  pleading  eye. 
The  little  Hungarian  rogue  took  me  by  surprise :  I  had 
scarce  seen  him,  before  he  walked  straight  up  beside  me, 


220  Fresh    Gleanings. 

and  took  my  hand  in  both  his,  and  kissed  it ;  and  then, 
as  I  looked  down,  lifted  his  eye  timidly  up  to  meet  mine ; 
— and  he  grew  bolder  at  the  look  I  gave  him,  and  kissed 
my  hand  again — molle  meum  Icvibus  cor  est  violabile  tells 
— and  if  I  suffer  this  I  shall  be  conquered,  thought  I ;  and 
looked  down  at  him  sternly.  He  dropped  my  hand, 
as  if  he  had  been  too  bold ; — he  murmured  two  or  three 
sweet  words  of  his  barbarian  tongue,  and  turned  his  eyes 
all  swimming  upon  me,  with  a  look  of  gentle  reproach 
that  subdued  me  at  once.  I  did  not  even  try  to  struggle 
with  the  enemy,  but  unbuttoned  my  coat,  and  gave  him  a 
handful  of  kreitzers. 

Now  before  I  could  put  my  money  fairly  back,  there 
came  running  up  one  of  the  wildest-looking,  happiest- 
hearted  little  nymphs  that  ever  wore  long,  floating  ring- 
lets, or  so  bright  a  blue  eye ;  and  she  snatched  my  hand, 
and  pressed  her  little  rosy  lips  to  it  again  and  again — so 
fast  that  I  had  not  time  to  take  courage  between,  and 
felt  my  heart  fluttering,  and  growing,  in  spite  of  myself, 
more  and  more  yielding,  at  each  one  of  the  beautiful 
creature's  caresses;  and  then  she  twisted  the  little  fin- 
gers of  one  hand  between  my  fingers,  and  with  the  other 
she  put  back  the  long,  wavy  hair  that  had  fallen  over  her 
eyes,  and  looked  me  fully  and  joyously  in  the  face — ah ! 
semper — semper  causa  est,  cur  ego  semper  amem  / 

If  I  had  been  of  firmer  stuff,  I  should  have  been  to  this 
day,  five  kreitzers  the  richer.  She  ran  off  with  a  happy, 
ringing  laugh  that  made  me  feel  richer  by  a  zwanziger ; 
— and  there  are  twenty  kreitzers  in  a  zwanziger. 


Beggar    Boys.  221 

I  had  buttoned  up  my  coat,  and  was  just  about  getting 
in  the  coach,  when  an  old  woman  came  up  behind 
me  and  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  at  the  same 
instant  a  little  boy  she  led,  kissed  my  hand  again.  I 
do  not  know  what  I  might  have  done,  in  the  current  of 
my  feelings,  for  the  poor  woman,  if  I  had  not  caught 
sight,  at  the  very  moment  of  this  new  appeal,  of  the  red 
nose,  and  black  whiskers,  and  round-topped  hat  of  Cam- 
eron, with  as  wicked  a  laugh  on  his  face,  as  ever  turned 
the  current  of  a  good  man's  thoughts. — It  is  strange  how 
feelings  turn  themselves  by  the  weight  of  such  trifling  im- 
pulses. I  was  ten  times  colder  than  when  I  got  out  of  the 
coach.  I  gave  the  poor  woman  a  most  ungracious  refusal 
— Ah  !  the  reproaches  of  complaining  eyes  !  Not  all  the 
pleasure  that  kind  looks  or  that  kind  words  give,  or  ha*vre 
given  in  life,  can  balance  the  pain  that  reproachful  eyes  oc- 
casion— eyes  that  have  become  sealed  over  with  that  lead- 
en seal  which  lifts  not;  how  they  pierce  one  by  day  time,  and 
more  dreadfully  by  night — through  and  through !  Words 
slip,  and  are  forgotten  ;  but  looks,  reproachful  looks,  fright- 
ful looks,  make  up  all  that  is  most  terrible  in  dreams. 

I  hope  Cameron  in  some  of  his  wanderings  over  the 
moors,  in  his  blue  and  white  shooting  jacket,  had  his 
flask  of  "  mountain  dew"  fail,  when  the  sun  was  straight 
over  his  head — and  that  between  that  time  and  night, 
gray  night,  damp  night,  late  night,  there  came  never  a 
bird  to  his  bag — not  even  a  wandering  field-fare^because 
he  laughed  me  out  of  my  charity  to  the  old  beggar-wom- 
an of  Illyria. 


222  Fresh   Gleanings. 

He  insisted,  however,  that  there  was  nothing  unchari- 
table in  laughing,  and  that  there  was  no  reason  in  the 
world,  why  genuine  benevolence  should  not  act  as  freely 
in  the  face  of  gayety,  as  of  the  demure-looking  faces,  with 
which  the  Scotch  presbyters  about  the  West  Bow,  drop 
their  pennies  into  the  poor-box.  Ten  thousand  times  in 
life,  one  is  ashamed  of  being  laughed  out  of  a  course  of 
action,  and  never  stops  to  think  whether  the  action  after 
all,  is  good  or  bad.  I  never  yet  met  a  man  who  hadn't 
pride  enough  to  deny  his  sensitiveness  to  ridicule.  It 
will  be  seen  that  I  was  in  quarreling  humor  with  Cam- 
eron, and  we  kept  the  beggars  fresh  in  our  minds  and  on 
our  tongues  for  an  hour  or  more,  when  we  appealed 
to  Monsieur  le  Comte,  who  looked  very  practically 
on  even  the  warmer  feelings  of  our  nature. 

Monsieur  le  Comte  thought  the  money  to  the  boy  was 
well  enough  bestowed ;  to  the  girl,  he  would  have  given 
himself,  had  she  been  a  trifle  older — 

—  And  she  had  kissed  your  hand,  as  she  did  mine — 

—  But  as  for  the  old  woman,  she  did  not  deserve  it. — 
He  was  behind  the  coach,  while  I  was  in  front,  and  had 
seen  the  mother  send  forward — first  the  boy — then  the 
little  girl — and  after  taking  the  kreitzers  from  both,  had 
come  up  with  a  third  ! 

Happily,  Cameron's  laugh  of  triumph  was  drowned  by 
the  noise  of  the  postillion's  bugle,  as  we  dashed  into  the 
court-yard  of  the  inn  of  Adelsberg. 


Adelsberg  Inn.  223 


Adelsberg  Inn 

f  I  ^  ROOPS  of  the  Illyrian  peasantry,  in  tall,  Steeplc- 
-*■  crowned  hats,  came  staring  about  us ;  and  the  maids 
of  the  inn,  dressed  for  a  fair  day,  overwhelmed  us  with  a 
flood  of  their  heathenish  dialect.  A  short,  wild-looking 
fellow,  with  a  taller  hat  than  any  in  the  crowd,  could 
interpret  for  us  in  a  little  of  Italian.  He  was  to  be  our 
guide  for  the  Caves.  The  great  hall  of  the  inn  had  a 
deal  table  stretching  down  the  middle,  and  from  this 
hall  opened  a  corridor,  out  of  which  were  our  sleeping- 
quarters  for  the  night. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  when  we  had  finished  the  dm- 
ner  of  broth  and  chops,  and  our  steeple-crowned  gmJe 
came  in  with  his — Scrvitore  Signori. 

Now,  the  Count's  idea  of  the  Cave,  was  formed  by  cas- 
ual recollections  of  the  dim  catacombs  under  the  capi.  j.1, 
and  of  the  Pont  Neuf,  when  the  Seine  was  so  low  a^;  to 
leave  dry  ground  between  the  pier  and  the  shore,  on  *\e 
side  of  the  Cite; — Cameron  was  thinking  of  Rob  R^y's 
Cave  under  the  lea  of  Ben  Lomond,  which — though  a  vury 
fair  sort  of  cave  in  its  way,  might,  if  the  stories  of  some 
Edinbro'  bloods  were  true,  be  stowed  away — Inversnaid, 
Loch  Lomond  and  all — in  the  crevices  of  the  great  Illy:'»n 
cavern  we  were  going  to  see. 

My  own  notions  had  a  dreamy  vagueness ;  and  thoT  gh 


224  Fkesh  Gleanings. 

I  was  fuller  of  faith  than  the  French  Count,  yet  my  hopes 
were  not  strong  enough  to  stave  ofFthe  fatigue  that  came 
upon  us,  even  before  we  had  reached  the  grated  door,  in 
the  side  of  the  hill,  that  opens  to  the  first  corridor. 

We  had  wound,  by  the  star-light,  along  the  edge  of  a 
beautiful  valley  :  Boldo — that  was  the  guide's  name— 
and  myself  in  front,  and  Monsieur  le  Comte  with  Came- 
ron behind,  when  we  came  to  where  the  path  on  a  sudden 
ended  in  the  face  of  a  high  mountain ; — so  high,  that  in 
the  twilight  neither  Cameron,  nor  myself,  nor  Le  Comte, 
who  was  tallet  than  both,  could  see  the  top. 


The   Cavern, 

TJOLDO  pulled  a  key  out  of  his  pocket,  and  opened 
-*-*     the  door  of  the  mountain. 

This  sounds  very  much  like  a  faiiy  story ;  and  it  would 
sound  still  more  so,  if  I  were  to  describe,  in  the  extrava- 
gant way  of  the  story- writers,  how  the  guide,  Boldo,  lit 
his  torch  just  within  the  door,  and  with  its  red  light  shin- 
ing over  his  wild,  brigand  face,  and  flaring  and  smoking 
in  great  waves  of  light  over  the  rocky  roof,  led  us  along 
the  corridor.  It  was  a  low  and  dismal  den,  and  even  the 
splash  of  a  foot  into  one  of  the  little  pools  of  water  that 
lay  along  the  bottom,  would  make  us  start  back,  and  look 
into  the  bright  light  of  Boldo's  torch  for  courage.  By 
and  by,  the  den  grew  higher,  and  white  stalactites  hung 


Thk   Caver  n.  225 

from  it,  and  as  the  smoke  laid  its  black  billows  to  the  roof, 
their  tips  hung  down  below  it,  like  the  white  heads  of 
crowding  Genii. 

Gradually  the  corridor  grew  so  high,  that  the  top  was 
out  of  sight ;  and  so  broad,  that  we  could  not  see  the  sides. 
Presently,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  guide  I  saw  a  dim, 
hazy  light,  as  if  from  a  great  many  lamps  beyond  us,  and 
soon  after,  Boldo  turned  round  with  his  finger  on  his  lip, 
and  we  heard  plainly  a  great  roar — as  if  of  a  river  falling. 

Then  we  walked  on  faster,  and  breathing  quick,  as  the 
light  grew  stronger,  and  the  noise  louder.  We  had  not 
walked  far,  wrhen  we  found  ourselves  upon  a  narrow 
ledge,  half  up  the  sides  of  a  magnificent  cavern :  fairy 
tales  could  not  depict  so  gorgeous  a  one,  for  the  habita- 
tion of  fairy  princes.  Above  our  heads,  sixty  feet  and 
more,  great,  glittering  stalactites  hung  down  like  the  teeth 
of  an  JEnean  hell :  below  us,  by  as  many  feet,  upon  the 
bottom  of  the  cavern,  a  stream  broad  and  black  was  rush- 
ing, and  in  the  distance  fell  into  some  lower  gulf,  with  a 
noise  that  went  bellowing  out  its  echoes  among  the 
ghostly  stalactites  of  the  dome.  Across  the  water,  a  nar- 
row bridge  had  been  formed,  perhaps  eighty  feet  in  length, 
and  two  old  men  in  cloaks,  whom  we  now  and  then 
caught  sight  of,  groping  on  the  opposite  cliffs,  had  lighted 
tapers  along  its  whole  reach ;  and  these  were  flickering 
on  the  dark  waters  below,  and  were  reflected  upon  the 
brilliant  pendants  of  the  vault,  so  as  to  give  the  effect  of  a 
thousand. 

There  we  stood— trembling  on  the  edge  of  the  cOT— 


226  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  red  light  of  Boldo's  torch  flaring  over  our  little  group  ; 
Le  Comte  had  for  some  time  banished  his  habitual  sneer, 
and  his  eyes  wandered  wondering  up  and  down,  with 
the  words  at  intervals  escaping  him — Cest  magnifique  ! 
— vraiment  magnifique  ! 

Cameron  stood  still,  scowling,  and  his  eye  flashing. 

—  Non  e  una  meraviglia  Signore  1 — said  Boldo. 

My  eye  wandered  dreamily, — now  over  the  earnest 
faces  of  the  Illyrian,  the  Frenchman,  the  Scotchman — 
now  over  the  black  bridge  below,  mouldering  with  moist- 
ure, on  which  the  tapers  glistened,  throwing  the  shadows 
of  the  frame-work  darkly  down  upon  the  waters.  The 
two  old  men  were  moving  about  like  shadows ;  their 
tapers  shed  gleams  of  light  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the 
cavern :  Boldo's  torch  glared  redly  on  the  side  that  was 
nearest  us  ;  the  lamps  upon  the  bridge  sent  up  a  reflected 
ray,  that  wavered  dazzlingly  on  the  fretting  of  the  roof: — 
but  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  dark,  subterranean  night 
shut  up  the  view  ;  and  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  the 
waters  roared — so  loudly,  that  twice  Boldo  had  spoken  to 
us,  before  we  heard  him,  and  followed  him  down  the  shelv- 
ing side  of  the  cliff,  and  over  the  tottering  bridge  we  had 
seen  from  above. 

The  old  men  gathered  up  the  lights,  and  we  entered 
the  other  side  a  little  corridor,  and  walked  a  mile  or  more 
under  the  mountain  ; — the  sides  and  the  roof  all  the  way 
brilliant  as  sculptured  marble.  Here  and  there,  the  cor- 
ridor spread  out  into  a  hall,  from  whose  top  the  stalactites 
hung  down  and  touched  the  floor,  and  grouped  together 


The   Cavern.  227 

in  gigantic  columns.  Sometimes,  the  rich  white  stone 
streamed  down  from  the  roof  in  ruffles,  brilliantly  transpa- 
rent; — sometimes,  as  if  its  flintiness  had  wavered  to  some 
stalking  hurricane,  it  spread  out  branches  and  leaves,  and 
clove  to  the  crevices  of  the  cavern,  like  a  tree  growing  in 
a  ruin.  Sometimes,  the  white  stone  in  columnar  masses, 
had  piled  up  five  or  six  feet  from  the  floor,  and  stood  sol- 
emnly before  us  in  the  flare  of  the  torch,  like  sheeted  sen- 
tinels. Sometimes,  among  the  fantastic  shapes  would  be 
birds,  and  cats,  and  chandeliers  hanging  from  the  rocf ; 
and  once  we  all  stopped  short,  when  Boldo  cried,  **.  Leo- 
ne !" — and  before  us  lay  crouching,  a  great  white  Lion ! 

Farther  on — two  miles  in  the  mountain — one  of  the  old 
men  in  the  cloaks  appeared  in  a  pulpit  above  us,  gesticu- 
lating as  earnestly  as  the  Carmelite  friar  who  lifts  up  his 
voice  in  the  Coliseum  on  a  Friday.  Presently,  he  ap- 
peared again, — this  time  behind  the  transparent  bars  of  a 
prison-house,  with  his  tattered  hat  thrust  through  the  cifv- 
ices,  imploring  carita ;  and  I  will  do  him  the  justice*  to 
say,  that  he  played  the  beggar  in  the  prison,  with  as  much 
naivete  as  he  had  played  the  friar  in  the  pulpit. 

We  had  not  gone  ten  steps  farther,  when  Boldo  tun:  3d 
about  and  waited  until  Cameron  and  Le  Comte  had  cc^ie 
fairly  up;  then,  without  saying  a  word,  but  with  a  flour- 
ish of  the  torch  that  prepared  us  for  a  surprise,  whetted 
suddenly  about, — turned  a  little  to  the  right, — then  left, — 
stepped  back  to  one  side, — lowered  his  torch,  and  so  ush- 
ered us  into  the  splendid  Salon  du  Bal.  The  old  rren 
had  hurried  before  us,  and  already  the  tapers  were  Paz- 


228  Fresh    Gleanings. 

ing  in  every  part — and  the  smoke  that  rose  from  them, 
was  floating  in  a  light,  transparent  haze,  over  the  surface 
of  the  vault. 

The  fragments  of  the  fallen  stalactites  had  been  broken 
into  a  glittering  sand,  over  which  the  peasantry  come 
once  a  year,  in  May,  to  dance.  Masses  of  the  white  rock 
formed  seats  along  the  sides  of  the  brilliant  hall. 

Now,  for  the  last  mile,  we  had  been  ascending  in  the 
mountain,  and  the  air  of  the  ball-room  was  warm  and  soft, 
whereas  before,  it  had  been  cold  and  damp;  so  we  sat 
down  upon  the  flinty  and  the  glittering  seats,  where,  once 
a  year,  the  youngest,  the  most  charming  of  the  Illyrian 
girls  do  sit.  The  two  old  men  had  sat  down  together  in 
a  distant  corner  of  the  hall. 

Boldo  laid  down  his  torch,  and  put  it  out  among  the 
glittering  fragments  of  the  stalactites  at  his  feet ;  and  then 
it  was,  that  he  commenced  the  recital  of  a  strange,  wild 
story  of  Hungarian  love  and  madness,  which  took  so 
strong  a  hold  upon  my  feelings,  that  I  set  down  my  re- 
membrance of  it  that  night,  in  the  chamber  of  my  inn. 

I  know  very  well,  that  it  may  not  appear  the  same  sort 
of  tale  to  one  sitting  by  a  glowing  grate  full  of  coals,  in  a 
rocking  and  be-cushioned  chair,  that  it  did  to  me,  in  the 
depths  of  the  Illyrian  cavern,  sitting  upon  the  broken  sta- 
lactite columns — to  say  nothing  of  a  brain  gently  warmed 
by  a  good  glass  of  Tokay  at  the  inn.  Still  does  it  show, 
like  all  those  strange  legends,  that  stretch  their  deep,  but 
pleasing  shadows  over  the  way  of  a  man's  travel,  strong 
traits  of  the  wild  Hungarian  character — mad  in  loving-^- 


Boldo's    Story.  229 

quick  in  vengeance — headstrong  in  resolve,  and  daring  in 
execution.  In  short,  after  thinking,  if  possibly  I  should 
not  lose  more  than  I  should  gain,  by  giving  it  to  the 
world,  I  have  determined  to  let  the  tale  come  in,  as  a  lit- 
tle episode  of  travel. 


o 


Boldo's   Story. 

NCE  a  year, — said  he, — the  peasantry  come 
to  the  cavern  to  be  merry ; — for  days  before, 
you  may  see  them  coming, — from  the  mountains  away 
toward  Salzburg,  where  they  sing  the  Tyrolese  ditties, 
and  wear  the  jaunty  hats  of  the  Tyrol ;  and  from  the 
great  plains,  through  which  the  mighty  arms  of  the 
Northern  River — the  Danube — wander;  and  from  the 
East,  where  they  wear  the  turban,  and  talk  the  language 
of  the  Turk  ;  and  from  the  South,  as  far  as  the  hills,  on 
which  you  may  hear  the  murmur  of  the  waters,  as  they 
kiss  the  Dalmatian  shore — from  each  quarter  they  come 
— vine-dressers  and  shepherds,  young  men  and  virgins — 
to  dance  out  in  the  cavern  the  Carnival  of  May. 

—  A  whole  night  they  dance : — for  they  go  into  the 
mountain  before  the  sunlight  has  left  the  land ;  and 
before  they  come  out,  the  next  day  has  broke  over  the 
earth.  But  the  light  and  the  joy  make  day  all  the  time 
they  are  in  the  cavern .  Tapers  are  blazing  every 
where  •  and  the  great  stalactite  you  see  in  the  middle,  is 


230  Fit 


ESH     ULEANINC8. 


so  hung  about  with  torches,  that  it  seems  a  mighty 
column  of  fire,  swaying  and  waving  under  the  weight  of 
the  mountain. 

—  Ah,  Signori,  could  you  see  them  —  the  Illyrian 
maidens,  with  their  pretty  head-dresses,  and  their  little 
ancles,  go  glancing  over  the  glistening  floor, — Signori, — 
Signori, — you  would  never  go  home ! 

—  Cert  bien — c'est  tres  bien  ! — said  Le  Comte. 
Boldo  went  on. 

—  A  great  many  years  ago,  and  there  was  a  beautiful 
maiden,  the  daughter  of  a  Dalmatian  mother,  who  came 
on  the  festal  day  to  the  cavern ; — and  her  name  was 
Copita.  She  had  three  brothers,  and  her  father  was  an 
Illyrian  shepherd.  She  had  the  liquid  eye,  and  the  soft 
sweet  voice  of  the  Southern  shores,  whence  came  her 
mother ;  but  she  had  the  nut-brown  hair,  and  the  sunny 
cheek  of  the  pasture  lands,  on  which  lived  her  father. 
Their  cottage  was  on  a  shelf  of  those  blue  mountains, 
which  may  be  seen  rising  along  the  Southern  and 
"Western  sky  from  the  inn-door  at  Laibach.  The  cottage 
had  a  thatched  roof,  and  orchard-trees  and  green  slopes 
around  it ; — -just  such  an  one  as  may  be  seen  now-a-days, 
by  the  traveler  toward  the  Northern  bounds  of  the  Illyrian 
kingdom.  The  smoke  curls  gracefully  out  of  their  deep- 
throated  chimneys ;  the  green  moss  speckles  the  thatch  ; 
the  low  sides  made  of  the  mountain  fir,  are  browned  with 
storms. 

—  Copita  ioved  flowers; — and  flowers  grew  by  the 
door  of  her  father's  home. 


Boldo's   Story.  231 

—  Copita  loved  music;  —  and  there  were  young 
shepherds,  who  lingered  in  the  gray  of  twilight 
about  the  cottage, — nor  went  away  till  her  song  was 
ended. 

—  The  brothers  loved  Copita,  as  brothers  should  love 
a  sister.  For  her  they  gathered  fresh  mountain  flowers, 
and  at  evening  the  youngest  braided  them  in  garlands  for 
her  head,  while  she  sang  the  songs  of  Old  days.  And 
when  they  went  up  to  the  cavern  in  May — which  all 
through  Illyria  is  time  of  summer — they  twisted  green 
boughs  together,  and  so,  upon  their  shoulders,  they  bore 
the  beautiful  Copita  over  the  roughest  of  the  mountain 
ways. 

—  During  the  nights  of  winter, — for  in  this  region 
there  is  winter  through  the  time  of  four  moons, — she 
spun,  and  she  sang.  But  not  one  of  all  the  young  shep- 
herds, or  the  vine-dressers  in  the  valleys,  who  came  to 
listen  to  her  song,  or  to  watch  her  small,  white  hand,  as 
it  plied  the  distaff, — not  one  had  learned  to  make  her 
sigh.  Twice  had  she  been  with  her  brothers — the  fair- 
haired  Adolphe,  the  dark,  piercing-eyed  Dalmetto,  the 
stout  Rinulph,  with  brown,  curling  locks, — to  the  Cavern 
in  spring-time.  And  often  she  would  dream  of  the 
column  of  fire  in  the  middle,  and  the  sparkling  roof,  and 
the  gloomy  corridors,  and  the  roar  of  the  waters,  and 
wake  up  shaking  with  fear.  For  she  was  delicate  and 
timid  as  a  fawn,  and  there  were  memories  that  frightened 
her. 

—  Strange  it  was,  that  so  good  a  virgin  should  ever 


232  Fresh   Gleanings. 

wake  up  affrighted.      Strange  it  was,  that  so  beautiful 
a  maiden  should  not  be  wooed  and  won. 

—  Now  Copita  had  a  cousin,  of  wild  Hungarian 
blood.  Their  eyes  had  met,  but  their  souls  had  not. 
For  Otho  was  passionate  and  hot-blooded,  and  often 
stem : — he  loved  the  boar-hunts  of  the  forests  of  the 
Juliennes.  But  he  had  seen  Copita,  and  he  loved  her 
more  than  all  besides.  Once,  when  wandering  in  early 
winter  with  his  boar-spear,  he  had  come  to  her  cottage ; 
and  once  he  had  seen  her  at  the  dance  of  the  Cavern. 
Otho  was  not  loved  of  his  kinsfolk  in  his  home — for  he 
was  cruel.  None  struck  the  boar-spear  so  deeply ;  and 
if  he  met  a  young  fawn  upon  the  hills,  lost  and  crying 
piteously,  he  would  plunge  the  rough  spear  in  its  throat, 
and  bear  it  home  struggling  on  his  shoulder,  and  throw  it 
upon  the  earth  floor  of  his  cottage,  and  say, — "Ho, 
my  sisters,  here  is  a  supper  for  you  !" — and  the  fawn  not 
yet  dead ! 

—  It  is  no  wonder  Otho  was  not  loved  at  home ; — it  is 
no  wonder  he  was  not  loved  of  Copita.  And  whom 
Copita  loved  not, — Adolphe  did  not  love, — Rinulph  did 
not  love, — Dalmetto  did  not  love. 

Now  in  those  old  days,  where  there  was  not  love 
between  men,  there  was  hate.  So  there  was  hate 
between  the  three  brothers,  and  the  Hungarian  cousin 
of  the  wild  locks  and  the  dark  eye. 

—  What  should  it  be,  but  those  wild  locks  and  that 
dark  eye  of  her  Hungarian  cousin,  that  made  Copita 
ever  wake  in  a  fright,  when  she  dreamed  of  the  great 


Boldo's    Story.  233 

Illyrian  Cavern]  Adolphe  was  ever  by  her  side  to 
defend  her,  but  Adolphe  was  young  and  innocent  of  all 
the  wiles  of  manhood ;  the  eye  of  Dalmetto  was  quick 
and  watchful,  but  the  eye  of  Otho  had  watched  the  flight 
of  the  vultures,  and  seen  them  bear  away  kids  even  from 
the  flock,  over  which  the  father  of  Copita  was  shepherd ; 
Rinulph  was  strong,  but  Otho  had  struggled  with  the 
wild  boar,  and  conquered  it, — and  was  the  brown-haired 
brother  of  Copita  stronger  than  the  wild  boar? 

—  Was  it  strange,  then,  that  Copita,  the  daughter  of  a 
Dalmatian  mother,  should  sometimes  tremble  when  she 
thought  of  the  passionate  eyes  of  the  cruel  and 
determined  Otho,  bending  fixedly  on  her,  from  out  the 
shadows  of  the  Cavern, — for  Otho  loved  the  shadow, 
better  than  the  light. 

—  But  dreams,  though  they  be  unpleasant,  make  not 
dim  the  happy  lifetime  of  an  Illyrian  peasant  girl.  The 
shuttle — it  rattled  merrily; — the  song — it  rose  cheerily; 
— and  the  father,  and  the  mother,  and  the  brothers,  were 
light-hearted.  Copita  dreamed  less  of  the  last  year's 
fete,  and  she  dreamed  more  of  the  fete  of  the  one  that 
was  coming.  She  dreamed  less  of  eyes  scowling  with 
hate  and  love  ; — and  she  dreamed  more  of  eyes  that  were 
full  of  admiration. 

—  Ah,  Signori,  it  is  pleasant — lifetime  in  the  mountains 
— the  mountains  of  Illyria !  The  green  fir-trees  cover 
them,  summer  and  winter ;  —  ihe  deer,  wild  as  we, 
wander  uuder  them,  and  crop  their  low  branches,  when 
the  snow  covers  the  hills  ; — and  when  the  spring  comes, 


234  Fresh   Gleanings. 

the  grass  is  green  in  a  day.*  Then  what  frolicking  of* 
boys  and  maidens! — what  smiles  upon  old  faces ! — 
Boldo  drew  his  coat  sleeve  over  his  eyes.  For  one 
moment  —  one  little  moment — his  heart  was  in  his 
mountain  home. 

Monsieur  Le  Comte,  who  was  old  and  unmarried, 
drew  a  long  breath. 

Boldo  thrust  the  end  of  his  torch  deeper  in  the  shining 
sand,  and  went  on. 

—  May  was  coming; — Copita  sang  at  evening  gayer- 
hearted; — Copita  danced  with  the  fair-haired  Adolphe 
on  the  green  sward  before  the  door  of  the  cottage.  The 
father  played  upon  his  shepherd's  pipe;  the  mother 
looked  joyously  on,  and  thanked  Heaven,  in  her  heart, 
for  having  given  her  such  a  daughter  as  Copita,  to  make 
glad  their  mountain  home. 

—  She  shed  tears  though,  and  the  father  almost  as 
many,  when  their  children  set  off  for  the  festive  meeting 
in  the  Cavern.  Down  the  mountains  they  went  singing, 
and  the  mother  strained  her  eyes  after  them,  till  she 
could  see  nothing  but  a  white  speck — Copita's  dress — 
gliding  down,  and  gliding  away  among  the  fir-trees. 
There  was  no  singing  in  the  cottage  that  night — nor  the 
next — nor  the  next — nor  the  next 

—  Scusatemi,  Signori! 


*  Nothing  can  be  richer  than  the  verdure  of  the  hills  of  Southern 
Austria ;  and  I  have  seen,  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  the  snow  and 
the  grass  lying  under  the  same  sun,  and  close  together. 


Boldo's   Story.  235 

—  Two  days  they  were  coming  to  the  Cavern.  At 
night  they  stayed  with  friends,  in  a  valley ;  and  in  the 
morning,  doubled  their  company,  and  came  on  together. 
As  they  walked,  sometimes  in  the  valleys,  sometimes 
over  spurs  of  the  hills,  there  came  others  to  join  them, 
who  went  on  the  pleasant  pilgrimage.  But  of  all  the 
maidens  not  one  was  so  beautiful  as  Copita.  None 
walked  with  a  statelier  or  freer  step  into  the  village 
below  the  mountain. 

—  Ah,  Signori,  could  you  but  see  the  gathering  upon 
such  a  day,  of  the  prettiest  dames  of  Illyria — the  braided 
hair,  dressed  with  mountain  flowers,  and   sprigs  of  the 

fir-tree,  and  the  heron's  plumes! and  in  old  days,  the 

gathering  was  gayer  than  now. 

—  In  a  street  of  the  village — in  the  throng,  Copita  had 
caught  sight  of  the  dark  face  of  her  Hungarian  lover. 
Perhaps  it  was  this,  perhaps  it  was  the  cold,  but  she 
trembled  as  she  came  with  her  brother  Adolphe  into  the 
Cavern.  The  waters  roared  as  they  roared  the  year 
before — as  they  are  roaring  now.  The  noise  made  her 
shudder  again. 

— ■  Adolphe/  said  she,  '  I  wish  I  was  in  our  cottage 
upon  the  mountain.' 

—  'What  would  Rinulph  say,  what  would  Dalmetto 
say,  what  should  I  think,  who  love  you  better  than  both, 
if  our  beautiful  sister  were  not  of  the  festal  dance  V 

—  Just  then  the  noise  of  the  music  came  through  the 
corridor,  and  Copita  felt  her  proud  mountain  blood  stir- 
red, uim3  went  on  with  courage. 


236  Fresh    Gleanings. 

—  The  night  had  half  gone,  when  Copita  sat  down 
where  we  sit.  The  fawn  upon  the  mountains  sometimes 
tires  itself  with  its  gambols;  Copita  was  tired  with 
dancing.     Adolphe  sat  beside  her. 

—  Copita  had  danced  with  Otho,  for  she  had  not  dared 
deny  him.  She  had  danced  with  a  blue-eyed  stranger, 
who  wore  the  green  coat  of  the  Cossacks,  and  a  high 
heron's  plume — whose  home  was  by  the  Danube;  for 
who  of  all  the  maidens  would  choose  deny  him  1 

—  When  Adolphe  spoke  of  Otho,  Copita  looked 
thoughtful  and  downcast,  but  turned  pale.  And  when 
Adolphe  spoke  of  the  stranger  from  the  banks  of  the 
Great  River,  with  the  heron's  plume  in  his  cap,  Copita 
looked  thoughtful  and  downcast,  but  the  color  ran  ove> 
her  cheek,  and  temple,  and  brow,  like  fire. 

—  Ah !  for  the  poor  young  shepherds,  and  the  vine- 
dressers, who  had  watched  her  white  hand  as  it  plied  the 
distaff,  and  had  listened  to  her  voice  as  she  sang  in  her 
mountain  home — Adolphe  knew  that  their  hopes  were 
gone! 

—  Now  it  was  a  custom  of  the  fete,  that  in  the  intervals 
of  the  dance,  the  young  men  and  virgins  should  pass  hand 
in  hand  around  the  column  of  fire  in  the  middle,  in  token 
of  good  will  between  them.  But  if  a  second  time  a  virgin 
went  round,  with  her  hand  wedded  to  the  same  hand  as 
before,  then  was  the  young  man  an  accepted  lover.  But 
if  a  third  time  they  went  round  together,  it  was  like  giving 
the  plighted  word,  and  young  man  and  virgin  were  be- 
trothed. 


Boldo's   Story.  237 

—  It  \V2s  the  custom  of  old  days;  and  all  the  company 
of  the  cave  shouted  greeting. 

—  Once  had  Copita  gone  round  the  column  with  cousin 
Otho,  of  the  dark  locks  and  wild  eye. 

—  Once  had  Copita  gone  round  the  column  with  the 
blue-eyed  stranger,  of  the  heron's  plume. 

—  A  second  time  the  stern  Hungarian  had  led  forth  the 
beautiful  Copita.  She  hesitated,  and  she  looked  pale, 
and  she  trembled :  for  there  were  many  eyes  upon  her. 
Adolphe  looked  upon  her,  and  bit  his  lip.  Rinulph  look- 
ed, and  he  stamped  with  his  foot  upon  the  sand.  Dal- 
metto  looked,  and  his  eye  seemed  to  pierce  her  through ; 
— but  more  piercing  than  all,  was  the  sad,  earnest  look 
of  the  stranger  of  the  heron's  plume.  Copita  shook:  the 
memory  of  her  dreams  came  over  her,  and  she  dared  not 
deny  Otho. 

—  Copita  sat  down  trembling ;  Otho  walked  away  with 
a  triumphant  leer. 

—  A  second  time  came  up  the  blue-eyed  stranger, 
doubting  and  fearful.  A  second  time  went  the  beauti- 
ful Copita  with  him  round  the  flame.  This  time  she 
trembled :  for  many  eyes  were  upon  her.  The  eyes  of 
Adolphe,  of  Rinulph,  of  Dalmetto,  looked  kindly,  but 
half  reprovingly ;  there  were  eyes  of  many  a  virgin  that 
seemed  to  say,  *  Is  this  our  gentle  Copita,  who  has  two 
lovers  in  a  day  V  There  was  the  vengeful  eye  of  Otho, 
that  seemed  to  say,  *  Two  lovers  in  a  day  she  shall  not 
have.'     It  was  no  wonder  Copita  trembled. 

— -  The  music  went  on,  and  the  dance ;  but  the  soul  of 


238  Fresh   Gleanings. 

the  mountain  girl  was  with  her  father  and  with  her  moth- 
er at  home. 

—  '  Why  is  that  tear  in  your  eye  V  said  Adolphe,  as  he 
put  his  arm  around  her. 

— ■  I  wish  I  was  in  our  cottage  upon  the  mountains, 
with  the  distaff  in  my  hand,  and  singing  the  old  songs,' 
said  Copita. 

—  The  dance  ceased.  Copita  trembled  like  an  aspen 
leaf. 

—  A  third  time  came  up  Otho.  Copita  turned  pale, 
but  Otho  turned  away  paler. 

—  A  third  time  came  up  the  blue-eyed  stranger — whose 
home  was  on  the  Danube — who  wore  in  his  cap  a  heron's 
plume. 

—  Copita  blushed;  Copita  trembled — and  rose  up  and 
stood  beside  him.  Hand  in  hand  they  stood  together; 
hand  in  hand  they  went  round  the  column  of  flame — the 
gentle  Copita,  and  the  stranger  of  the  heron's  plume. 

—  A  wild  song  of  greeting — a  Hungarian  song — burst 
over  the  roof  of  the  Cavern.  You  would  be  afraid,  Sig- 
nori,  to  listen  to  the  shaking  of  the  Cave,  when  the  mount- 
ain company  lift  up  their  voices  to  a  mountain  song. 
There  is  not  a  corner  but  is  filled ;  there  is  not  a  stalac- 
tite but  quivers ;  there  is  not  a  torch-flame  but  wavers  to 
and  fro,  as  if  a  strong  wind  w»re  blowing. 

—  Now  the  face  of  the  Hungarian  Otho,  as  he  looked, 
and  as  he  listened,  was  as  if  it  had  been  the  face  of  a 
devil. 

—  Copita  went  with  Adolphe  into  the  cool  corridor, 


Boldo's   Story.  239 

for  the  night  was  not  yet  spent,  and  other  dances  were  to 
follow.  Adolphe  left  his  sister  a  little  time  alone.  Otho's 
eyes  had  followed,  and  he  came  up. 

—  'Will  my  pretty  cousin  Copita  walk  with  me  in  the 
Cavern  V  said  he. 

—  She  looked  around  to  meet  the  eye  of  Adolphe,  01 
Rinulph,  or  Dalmetto.  The  dance  had  begun,  and  they 
two  were  unnoticed. 

—  She  said  not  no  :  she  made  no  effort  to  rise,  for  the 
strong  arm  of  Otho  lifted  her. 

Boldo  rose,  and  lit  his  torch,  and  the  two  old  men  came 
behind,  as  we  went  out  of  the  Salon  du  Bal  into  the  cor- 
ridor. 

—  Along  this  path, — said  Boldo, — they  went  on.  Co- 
pita's  mind  full  of  shadows  of  dreams — she  dared  not  go 
back  ;  Otho's  mind  full  of  dark  thoughts — his  strong  arm 
bore  her  on. 

—  She  had  not  a  voice  to  shout ;  besides  the  music  was 
louder  than  the  shouting  of  a  frighted  maiden.  Otho 
pushed  on  with  cruel  speed.  Copita's  faltering  step  stay- 
ed him  no  more  than  the  weight  of  a  young  fawn,  which, 
time  and  time  again,  he  had  borne  home  upon  his  shoul 
der,  from  the  wild  clefts  of  the  mountains. 

The  roar  of  the  waters  was  beginning  to  sound.  Brave- 
ly led  Boldo  on,  with  his  broad  torch  flaring  red.  The 
road  was  rough.  The  rush  of  the  waters  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  the  damp  air  chilled  us.  Cameron  was  for 
turning  back. 

—  No,    no, — said     Boldo,  —  come    and    see    where 


240  Fresh   Gleanings. 

Otho  led  Copita, — where  he  stood  with  her  over  the 
gulf. 

And  now  we  could  hardly  hear  him  talk  for  the  roar ; 
but  he  beckoned  us  from  where  he  stood  upon  a  jutting 
point  of  the  rock,  and  as  we  came  up,  he  waved  his  long 
torch  twice  below  him.  The  red  glare  shone  one  mo- 
ment upon  smooth  water,  curling  over  the  edge  of  a 
precipice,  far  below.  The  light  was  not  strong  enough 
to  shed  a  single  ray  down  where  the  waters  fell. 

— '  My  cousin  Copita,'  said  Otho,  '  has  given  her  hand 
to  the  proud  stranger  of  the  heron's  plume  ;  will  she  here, 
upon  the  edge  of  the  gulf,  take  again  her  promise  V 

— '  The  stranger  is  not  proud,'  said  Copita,  '  and  my 
word  once  given,  shall  never  be  broken.'  And  as  if  the 
word  had  given  life  to  her  mountain  spirit,  her  eye  look- 
ed back  contempt  for  the  exulting  smile  of  Otho.  Like  a 
deer  she  bounded  from  him ;  but  his  strong  arm  caught 
her.  She  called  loudly  upon  each  of  her  brothers ;  but 
the  dance  was  far  away,  and  the  roar  of  the  waters  was 
terriWe. 

—  Her  thoughts  flew  one  moment  home — her  head  was 
pillowed  as  in  childhood,  upon  the  bosom  of  her  Dalma- 
tian mother. 

—  With  such  memories,  who  would  not  have  force  to 
struggle  1  She  sprung  to  the  point  of  the  rock — it  is  very 
slippery:  again  the  strong  arm  of  Otho  was  extended  to- 
ward her — another  step  back — poor,  poor  Copita  ! 

—  Look  down,  Signori, — and  Boldo  waved  his  red 
torch  below  him. 


Boldo's   Story.  241 

—  The  cottage  of  the  Illyrian  shepherd — of  the  Dalma- 
tian mother— was  desolate  upon  the  mountains !  The 
voice  of  singing  was  no  more  heard  in  it ! 

—  Otho  heard  a  faint  shriek  mingling  with  the  roar  of 
the  waters,  and  even  the  stern  man  was  sorrowful.  He 
trod  back  alone  the  corridors.  None  know  why  he  made 
not  his  way  to  the  mountains.  The  stones  stirred  under 
his  feet,  and  he  looked  behind  to  see  if  any  followed. 
The  stalactites  glistened  under  the  taper  that  was  fasten- 
ed in  his  bonnet,  and  he  started  from  under  them,  as  if 
they  were  falling  to  crush  him. 

—  Now  in  the  hall  of  the  dance,  there  was  search  for 
Copita,  when  Otho  came  in. 

—  There  are  three  ways  by  which  one  can  pass  out  of 
the  hall,  aud  after  Otho  had  come  in  alone,  Adolphe  stood 
at  one,  Rinulph  at  one,  and  Dalmetto  at  one.  The  Hun- 
garian could  look  the  wild  boar  in  the  eyes,  when  they 
were  red  with  rage— but  his  eyes  had  no  strength  in  them 
then,  to  look  back  upon  the  eyes  of  virgins.  He  would 
escape  them  by  going  forth  ;  but  when  he  came  to  where 
Rinulph  stood,  Rinulph  said,  '  Where  is  my  sister  Copita  V 
and  Otho  turned  back.  And  when  he  came  to  where 
Dalmetto  stood,  Dalmetto  said,  '  Where  is  my  sister  Co- 
pita ]'     And  Otho  was  frightened  away. 

—  And  when  he  came  to  where  Adolphe  stood, 
Adolphe  said,  '  Tell  us,  where  is  our  sister  Copita  V 

—  And  Otho,  that  was  so  strong,  grew  pale  before  the 
blue-eyed  Adolphe. 

—  When  Otho  turned  back,  the  young  stranger,  with 

L 


242  F  it  e  s  ii    Gleanings. 

the  cup  of  the  heron's  plume,  walked  up  boldly  to  him, 
and  asked.  'Where  is  the  beautiful  Copitaf 

—  And  Otho  trembled  more  and  more,  and  the  faces 
grew  earnest  and  threatening  around  him,  so  he  told  them 
all ;  and  he  was  like  a  wild  boar  that  is  wounded,  among 
fierce  dogs. 

—  The  three  brothers  left  not  their  places,  but  the  rest 
spoke  low  together,  and  bound  the  Hungarian  hand  and 
foot.  Hand  and  foot  they  bound  him,  and  took  up 
torches,  and  bore  him  toward  the  deep  river  of  the 
Cavern.  The  brothers  followed,  but  the  virgins  joined 
hands,  and  sung  a  wild  funeral  chaunt — such  as  they  sing 
by  a  mountain  grave.  Adolphe,  and  Rinulph,  and  Dal- 
metto,  stood  together  in  the  mouth  of  the  way,  that  goes 
over  the  bridge,  and  out  of  the  mountain.  It  was  well 
the  three  brothers  were  there :  for  as  they  bore  Otho  on, 
and  as  they  neared  the  gulf,  he  struggled,  as  only  a  man 
struggles,  who  sees  death  looking  him  in  the  face.  He 
broke  the  bands  that  were  around  him ;  he  pushed  by 
the  foremost — he  rushed  through  those  who  were  behind 
— he  leaped  a  chasm — he  clung  to  a  cliff — he  ran  along 
its  edge — but,  before  he  could  pass  out,  the  brothers  met 
him,  and  he  cowered  before  them. 

—  They  bound  him,  and  bore  him  back,  and  hurled 
him  headlong,  and  the  roar  of  the  waters  drowned  his 
cries. 

—  One  more  song — a  solemn  song  around  the  column 
of  fire,  and  the  night  was  ended. 

—  At  early  sunrise,  Adolphe,  Dalmetto,  and  Rinulph 


JBoldo's    Story.  243 

had  set  off  over  the  mountains,  with  heavy  hearts,  home- 
ward. They  picked  no  flowers  by  the  way  for  the  gen- 
tle Copita.  Copita  sang  no  songs  to  make  gay  their 
mountain  march. 

—  The  blue-eyed  stranger  had  torn  the  plume  of  the 
heron  from  his  cap,  and  with  a  slow  step,  and  sad,  was 
going  by  the  early  li^ht,  down  the  mountains,  to  his 
home  upon  the  banks  of  the  mighty  Danube. 

—  They  say  that  in  quiet  evenings,  in  the  gulf, — and 
Boldo  swayed  the  red  torch  below  him, — may  be  seen  a 
light  form,  that  angels  bear  up.  And  when  it  is  black 
without,  and  the  waters  high,  may  be  seen  a  swart  form, 
struggling  far  down, — and  again  Boldo  swung  his  torch 
— this  time  too  rapidly,  for  the  wind  and  the  spray  put  it 
out.  We  were  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice. — Santa 
Maria  defend  us ! 

The  two  old  men  were  groping  in  the  distance — two 
specks  of  light  in  the  darkness.  Boldo  shouted,  but  the 
waters  drowned  the  voice. 

Thrice  we  shouted  together,  and  at  length  the  old  men 
came  toward  us.  After  the  torch  was  lit,  we  followed 
Boldo  over  the  bridge,  and  through  the  corridor,  out 
into  the  starlight.  Four  hours  we  had  been  in  the 
mountain,  and  it  was  past  midnight  when  we  were  back 
at  the  inn. 

I  am  not  going  to  say — because  I  can  not — whether 
the  story  that  Boldo  told  us  was  a  true  story. 

Cameron  said — it  was  a  devilish  good  story. 

And  story  or  no  story — the  Cavern  is  huge  and  wild, 


244  Fresh  Gleanings. 

And  many  a  time  since,  have  I  waked  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  and  found  myself  dreaming  of  the  pretty 
Copita,  or  the  cap  with  the  heron's  plume. 


Roadside. 

4  T  six  next  morning,  a  red-coated  Jehu  had  mounted 
***M-    our  coach-box. 

I  had  been  deputed  to  pay  Boldo  for  his  hundred  flam- 
beaux (I  would  advise  the  economical  traveler  to  order 
but  fifty),  and  as  we  set  off,  he  waved  his  tall  crowned  hat 
at  me,  with  an  Addio — Carissimo  !  that  kept  me  in  good 
humor  for  an  hour. 

It  is  very  pleasant — the  memory  of  the  little  chit-chat 
of  travel ; — to  tell  the  truth,  when  my  eye  runs  over  the 
old  notes,  and  my  thought  wanders  to  the  time  and  the 
place — straightway  my  fancy  conjures  up  jolly-faced  Cam- 
eron, lying  against  the  yellow  leather  of  the  coach,  and 
the  tall  red-bearded  Count;  and  my  mind  leans  back, 
easily  as  a  cloud  passes,  into  that  sweet  indolence,  in 
which  we  rolled  away  the  fresh  morning  hours,  and  in- 
dulged in  our  good-tempered  talk ;  pleasant  disquisitions, 
and  bon-?nots,  and  repartees,  float  along  my  memory  like 
a  summer  stream,  and  I  forget  utterly  that  the  reader 
cares  nothing  about  these  things,  but  is  expecting  me  all 
the  time, — a  vain,  very  vain  expectation, — to  paint  with 
this  poor  stub  of  a  pen,  the  glories  of  the  Illyrian  scenery. 


Roadside.  245 

The  mountains  of  the  cavern  grew  blue  behind  us,  and 
other  mountains  were  growing  nearer  and  greener  before 
us.  The  cultivation  had  a  careless  air,  like  that  of  the 
interior  districts  of  New  England.  Clumps  of  orchard 
trees  lay  scattered  about  in  the  game  disorderly  pretti- 
ness ;  the  fences,  even,  were  of  the  familiar  New  England 
sort — posts  and  rails.  The  cottages  were  of  wood,  and 
had  the  only  shingled  roofs  I  met  with  in  Europe. 

The  road  was  hard  and  smooth— too  good,  to  let  me 
harbor  the  illusion  that  the  mountains  in  my  eye  were 
the  Green  Mountains, — or  the  valley,  the  valley  of  the 
Connecticut.  Great  wagon-loads  of  lumber,  and  boxes, 
were  toiling  by  us ; — the  bells  jingling  on  the  staunch 
horses,  and  the  drivers  bowing  low,  with  a  lift  of  their 
hats ; — but  whether  from  respect  to  us,  or  to  the  black 
eagle  of  the  coach-door,  we  could  not  determine. 

The  Illyrians  have  a  peculiarity  in  their  cottage  archi- 
tecture, which  a  little  surprised  me  :  it  is  that  of  building 
without  chimneys,  so  that  the  smoke  escapes  in  a  very 
picturesque  way,  at  the  door.  The  method  will  com- 
mend itself,  I  should  think,  to  such  as  have  a  fancy  for 
adopting  European  notions. 

Through  all  this  country,  one  sees  very  rarely  the 
embellished  property  of  a  large  proprieter;  in  this 
respect,  it  yet  more  assimilates  with  the  character  of  New 
England  scenery. 

An  hour  before  noon,  and  when  we  had  forgotten  the 
coffee  and  toast  of  the  morning,  we  clattered  into  the 
great  court-yard  of  an  inn  at  Laibach. 


246  Fresh    Gleanings. 

And  of  Laibach,  I  can  really  say  very  little, — except 
that  it  is  a  great,  broad,  rambling  town,  with  a  monster 
of  a  tavern, — that  has  a  court  large  enough  for  a  village 
square, — where  we  ate  a  very  good  breakfast,  by  means 
of  a  French  bill  of  fare ; — for  not  one  of  all  the  servants 
could  play  interpreter.  We  ended  by  having  the  land- 
lady's daughter, — a  buxom,  black-eyed,  pretty  girl,  for 
waiting-maid. 

Even  she  was  puzzled  with  some  of  Cameron's  ges- 
ticulations ;  and  matters  were  growing  more  and  more 
perplexing,  when  an  old  Viennois  at  another  table,  inter- 
posed in  a  little  of  Italian.  And  he  went  on  to  speak  of 
the  rich  country  we  were  going  through  on  our  way  to 
Cilli ; — it  was  wild,  he  said  (he  had  never  seen  the  Alps), 
— it  was  scattered  over,  he  said,  with  fragments  of  noble 
old  castles  (he  had  never  sailed  up  the  Rhine) ;  and  he 
hinted  at  some  of  those  strange  spirit  stories  which  hang 
about  them,  and  which  I  treasured  gladly  in  my  mind,  for 
they  added  double  to  the  interest  of  the  afternoon's  ride 
among  them. 

There  is  in  my  book  of  flowers — graceful  souvenirs  of 
tmvel — a  little  bunch,  tied  up  with  a  brown  silk  thread, 
that  I  brought  away  from  the  hands  of  our  pretty  waiting- 
maid — the  landlady's  daughter  at  the  inn;  and  I  should  be 
unjust  to  Cameron,  if  I  intimated  that  he  had  not  received 
a  like  show  of  favor; — though  mine,  as  I  insisted  at  the 
time,  was  prettier  and  fresher  by  half.  As  for  the  Count, 
he  not  only  had  no  such  fragrant  memento,  but  he  will 
remember  quarreling  with  us,  on  the  absurd  plea,  that 


Roadside.  247 

the  flowers  increased  the  amount  of  the  bill, — of  which, 
notwithstanding  his  years  and  red  beard,  he  came  in  for 
a  full  third. 

Well — we  set  off,  as  I  have  said,  quarreling, — through 
lines  of  wagons  of  merchandise,  which  traverse  this  great 
artery  of  Austrian  commerce — the  highway  from  Vienna 
to  Trieste.  But  no  sooner  were  we  quit  of  the  straggling, 
but  clean-kept  town,  than  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the 
country  broke  our  quarrel.  The  Count  forgot  his  losses ; 
and  we  forgot  our  triumphs. 

We  were  riding  in  the  valley  of  a  river ;  sometimes  it 
spread  into  a  plain,  with  cottages  and  clumps  of  trees 
scattered  over  it ;  sometimes  it  narrowed,  or  was  split 
crosswise  into  side  valleys,  that  opened  up  blue  and 
shadowy  distance;  and  sometimes  the  hills  staggered 
out  boldly,  all  armed  with  broken-topped  pine-trees, 
and  crowded  us  down  to  the  very  brink  of  the  river. 
Then  came  the  bits  of  ruin, — looking  old  as  the  rocks, 
and  hung  their  heavy,  time-battered  walls,  like  the 
broken  armor  of  a  giant,  along  the  sides  of  the  mount- 
ains. 

No  wonder  that  seated  as  they  are,  high  up  among 
-hick  fir-trees,  that  make  such  a  sighing  by  night, — no 
wonder  that  spirit-stories  belong  to  them  all.  I  pity  the 
sober-made  man,  who  does  not  love  to  listen  to  them,  in 
view  of  the  old  feudal  rule, — the  knight  fearful  in  armor 
— the  hall  shadowy  with  tall  flame, — the  loop-holes 
guaged  for  the  cross-bow, — the  bottomless  oubliettes, — 
the  hundred  serving-men, — the  thousand  vassals  tramping 


243  F  u  e  s  h   Gleanings, 

to  their  lord's  banner, — the  lady  Andromache-like,  at  the 
rich  figures  of  old  'broidery, — sweet-voiced  damsels  at  the 
songs,  tender  and  plaintive, — and  now,  nothing  of  it  all — 
knights,  armor,  love,  vassal,  or  banner,  but  that  strange 
bit  of  ruin  among  the  firs — pray,  who  can  not  lend  an  ear 
of  half  belief  to  the  spirit  stories,  if  they  shed  only  a  light- 
ning gleam  over  the  Olden  Time  ? 

As  it  grew  dark, — for  we  rode  long  after  nightfall, 
and  I  grew  sleepy  with  the  swift  roll  of  the  coach,  and 
the  black  turrets  lifted  stronger  against  the  sty,  and 
our  talk  had  wearied  us  to  silence,  my  fancy  grew  busier 
with  the  hints  of  the  old  Viennois.  And  the  Wasser- 
man  of  Laibach*  appeared  to  me  in  a  comer  of  the 
coach. 

What  was  it  but  the  sweet  school-boy  Mythology 
again,  grown  rude  in  Gothic  North-land]  Not  now, 
Blue-eyed  Pallas,  with  Gorgon  shield, — not  goat-footed 
Pan,  king  of  Arcady, — nor  Endymion,  nor  Ida  shaking  to 
the  tread  of  Jove,  nor  Diomed,  nor  yet  Aprodite,  but  in- 
stead, dragons, — giants,  undines,  wild  hunters,  and  talking- 
birds  ; — in  place  of  Danae  of  the  golden  shower,  floating 
on  brazen-studded  ark, — clasping  her  purple-clad  Perseus, 
and  lifting  her  simple  plaint — Olov  e%co  novov — a  flax- 
haired  young  waterman,  living  under  the  banks  of  North- 
ern river — swimming  under  the  surface,  and  coming  on 


*  — A  Leybach.  dans  la  riviere  du  meme  nom,  habita  autre-fois 
tin  ondia,  qu'on  appelait  Waesermann  (homme  aquatique)  —Veillies 
A  lie  ma  ndes — >  Valvassor. 


Roadside.  249 

festal  days  to  the  shores,  to  link  his  cold,  clammy  hand,* 
to  that  of  a  Northern  Ursula  in  the  dance. 

On  the  brown  school-benches,  under  the  eye  of  my 
stern  old  master, — years  back, — I  had  fed  my  mind  for 
hours  together  on  the  vulture-torn  liver  of  Prometheus,  and 
Homeric  verse  had  started  fancies,  that  yearned  to  follow 
winged  Mercury  to  banquet-places,  where   gods   drank 

nectar ; no  Andromeda,  no  Perseus  now, — no  Galatea 

riding  in  sea-shell,  drawn  by  many-colored  dolphins — no 
Ganymede,  no  Hyacinth,  no  chirping  Silenus  on  his  ass ; 

Europa  none Diana  none.     Yet,  like  a  warped  and 

twisted  fancy  of  the  same  School  age,  came  round  me  the 
new  creatures  of  the  North  Mythology. 

The  difference  between  the  two  is  just  that  between 

polish  and  barbarism. In  the  peopling  of  Hellas  were 

nymphs : — among  barbarians,  gnomes.  In  Greek  let- 
ter, were  sea-gods — in  Gothic,  dragons.  In  the  antique, 
the  thyrsus  was  wrapped  in  garlands ; — in  the  Hunnish, 
the  spear  is  sharp  and  naked. 

*  Une  main  toute  molle  et  froide  comme  la  glace. — Puis  il  invita  a 
danser  une  jeune  fille  bien  faite,  bien  paree,  mais  aussi  pen  sage, 
qu'on  appelait  Ursule.  Eufin,  ils  s'ecarterent  de  plus  en  plus  de  la 
place  ou  avait  lieu  ce  bal  champetre,  et  arrives  a  la  riviere,  tous  les 
deux,  s'y  precipiterent  et  disparurent. — Une  Danse  avec  V Homme 
Aquatique. 


250  Fresh   Gleanings. 


HlNZELMANN. 

A  BRAVE,  good  spirit  was  Hinzelmann,  who  once 
habited  an  old  castle  of  the  Illyrian  country. 
It  lay  on  our  road  that  night;  the  moon  was  shining 
through  the  crevices  of  the  ruin.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  stirring  about  it,  but  I  could  see  the  tops  of  the 
pine-trees  waving  in  the  night  wind,  and  brave  as  I  boast 
to  be,  I  was  thankful  to  be  in  the  coach,  galloping 
on,  and  not  under  the  deep  shadow  of  the  crumbling 
wall. 

They  say  it  is  a  terror  to  the  villagers  after  nightfall ; 
and  it  is  told  of  a  young  and  bold  peasant,  that  in  a  fit  of 
drunkenness,  he  made  a  boast  that  he  would  go  at  mid- 
night, and  bring  away  a  stone  from  the  wall.  He  reach- 
ed the  chateau  safely,  and  had  plucked  up  his  trophy^ 
and  was  making  his  way  back  to  his  village,  when  he 
heard  the  paces  of  a  horse.  He  had  but  just  time  to  con- 
ceal himself  behind  a  clump  of  brushwood,  when  a  mount- 
ed knight  clad  in  steel,  with  a  lady  before  him,  in  his 
arms,  came  clattering  by ;  but  scarce  had  he  passed  the 
bridge  below  the  peasant,  when  a  pacquet  fell  from  the 
rider  into  the  stream. 

When  the  horse's  steps  had  died  away,  the  bold  peas- 
ant sought  the  pacquet ;  but  scarce  had  he  found  it,  and 
mounted  the  bank  of  the  stream,  when  he  heard  with  ter- 


H  I  N  Z  E  L  M  A  N  N.  251 

ror  the  returning  paces  of  the  mounted  knight.  He  ran 
fast  as  his  legs  would  cany  him  toward  his  village. 

The  horseman  gained  upon  him; — he  heard  him 
tramp  over  the  shaking  bridge,  and  presently  the  ground 
trembled  behind  him ; — he  turned  a  moment,  arjd  saw 
the  armor  of  the  knight  shining  like  silver,  in  the  light 
of  the  moon.  j 

The  poor  man  6taggered  on  till  he  felt  the  hot  breath 
of  the  strange  charger,  and  fell  to  the  ground  half  dead 
with  fright. 

The  villagers  sought  him  next  morning,  and  ifound 
him  where  he  had  fallen.  His  looks  were  haggard,  and 
his  body  bruised.  The  pacquet,  and  the  stone  from  the 
ruin  were  both  gone.  He  could  give  no  account  of 
either,  except  what  I  have  written;  but  they  say,  that 
for  the  rest  of  his  life,  he  was  a  wiser  and  better 
man* 

Centuries  ago,  Hinzelmann  was  the  guardian  spirit  of 
the  baron  who  inhabited  the  castle.  A  plate  was  al- 
ways set  at  the  table  in  the  long  hall,  for  the  invisible 
guest;  and  the  second  goblet  of  red  wine  was  always 
in  honor  of  Le  Bon  Esprit. 

But  the  Baron,  upon  a  time,  grew  tired  of  the  mis- 
chievous pranks  of  Hinzelmann,  who  sometimes  upset 
the  goblets  of  his  guests,  and  would  sing,  in  the  fullest 
company,  this  bit  of  chanson  : — 


*   Chateau   de    Blumenstcin  (237,  L'Herifier)  has  something  in 
common  with  this  story. 


252  Fresh   Gleanings. 

Maltre,  ici  laisse-moi  venir, 
Et  du  bonheur  tu  vas  jouir ; 
Mais  de  ceans,  si  Ton  me  chasse, 
Le  malheur  y  prendra  ma  place.* 

—  So  the  Baron,  one  morning  at  light,  saddled  a  fa- 
vorite horse,  and  went  out  from  his  castle  unattended, 
hoping  to  reach,  unbeknown  to  Hinzelmann,  his  estate 
in  Bohemia.  As  he  rode  down  the  mountain,  he  noticed 
a  white  plume  floating  in  the  air  behind  him.  He 
finished  his  day's  ride  safely,  and  stopped  at  night  at 
a  solitary  house  by  the  way. 

In  the  morning,  when  the  Baron  rose  to  go,  he  missed 
his  heavy  gold  chain,  that  he  had  worn  upon  his  neck. 
The  host  was  grieved,  and  called  up  his  household  to 
question  them ;  none  knew  any  thing  of  it.  When  the 
servitors  had  withdrawn,  the  Baron  heard  the  voice 
of  Hinzelmann,  telling  him  to  look  for  his  chain  under 
his  pillow. 

The  Baron  was  enraged  that  he  could  not  rid  himself 
of  his  invisible  attendant.     Hinzelmann  laughed — (not  a 


Ortgies  lsesst  du  mick  hier  gan, 
Gliicke  sallst  du  han  ; 
Wultu  mick  aver  verdrieven 
Ungliick  warst  du  kriegen. 

From  Grimm's  Hinzelmann, — Le  Multiforme  Hinzelmann — H*3> 
toire  Merveilleuse  cfun  Esprit,  icrite  par  le  Curt  Feldmann.  The 
curious  reader  will  perceive  that  the  old  history  has  been  only  sug 
gestive  of  the  present — little  being  left  of  it  but  the  name,  and  the 
chanson. 


HlNZELMANN.  253 

Satyr's  laugh,  nor  yet  that  of  a  Bacchante,  but  a  Gothic, 
man's  laugh) — and  told  the  Baron  it  was  needless  to 
try  to  escape  him,  that  he  had  floated  behind  him  in 
the  shape  of  a  white  plume,  and  could  follow  wherever 
he  went. 

The  Baron,  like  a  good  philosopher,  went  back  to  his 
castle. 

Honors  were  duly  drank,  month  after  month,  to  the 
Good  Spirit,  and  he  served  the  Baron  many  a  good 
office.  He  teased  his  troublesome  guests — spilled  their 
wine — pinched  their  elbows,  and  was  invaluable  for  keep- 
ing off  such  visitors  as  annoyed  the  Baron. 

A  Cure  of  the  neighborhood  offered  to  exorcise  the 
Spirit,  and  the  master  of  the  castle  suffered  him  to  try 
his  conjurations.  Hinzelmann  forgave  the  Baron,  but 
ducked  the  Cure  in  the  ditch. 

A  knight  proposed  to  drive  away  the  Spirit  with  sword, 
or  slay  him.  He  shut  the  great  hall  of  the  castle, — even  to 
the  latch-hole,  and  hewed  the  air  in  every  corner.  Hin- 
zelmann laughed  when  he  had  exhausted  himself,  and 
told  the  knight  he  would  meet  him  at  Magdebourg.  The 
knight  went  away  trembling,  and  a  month  after  was  slain 
at  the  siege  of  Magdebourg:  and  they  say  that  a  white 
plume  floated  over  him,  as  the  sword  fell  upon  his  head. 

Hinzelmann  was  angry  with  the  Baron  for  this  breach 
of  confidence ;  that  night  he  chanted  in  the  hall  this  bit 
of  the  old  chanson, — 

Si  l'on  me  chasse, 
Le  malheur  y  prendra  ma  place. 


254  Fresh   Gleanings. 

The  next  day  it  was  found  that  a  pacquet  in  which 
were  the  family  jewels  was  gone.  The  Baron's  vassals 
dropped  off  one  by  one,  and  the  cattle  died.  Nothing 
was  known  now  of  Hinzelmann  at  the  chateau : — noth- 
ing had  been  known  for  a  month,  when  one  night  a 
loud  scream  was  heard  from  the  apartment  occupied  by 
the  two  daughters  of  the  Baron. 

They  ran  with  torches  to  the  chamber,  and  found 
that  Anna,  which  was  the  name  of  one  of  the  sisters, 
had  fallen  from  the  window  into  the  moat.  They  could 
see  her  struggling  in  the  water.  But  before  they  could 
unbar  the  castle-gates  to  go  to  her  rescue,  a  man-at-arms 
upon  the  wall  reported  that  a  knight  in  full  armor,  had 
snatched  her  from  the  fosse,  and  put  her  upon  his  horse, 
and  rode  away  into  the  forest. 

For  weeks  after,  the  Baron's  vassals  scoured  the 
country  ; — they  saw  a  strange  hoof-mark  on  the  turf,  but 
never  caught  sight  of  the  stranger  knight. 

The  Baron  was  maddened  with  sorrow  and  rage.  It 
had  long  been  his  custom  to  make  a  feast  on  his  birth- 
night,  and  when  the  night  came,  and  he  was  preparing 
himself  in  his  chamber,  at  the  first  coming  on  of  darkness, 
it  happened  that  he  saw  a  white  figure,  and  heard  a 
rustling  in  the  corner  of  his  apartment.  The  Baron  was 
a  bold  man,  but  trembled  at  sight  of  the  apparition, — 
and  trembled  more  and  more,  when  he  heard  the  words, 
slowly  pronounced,  as  it  seemed,  in  a  familiar  tone, 
— "  Let  the  second  goblet  to-night  be  drained  in  honor  of 
Hinzelmann."      And  what   was  the   horror  of  the    old 


H  I  N  Z  E  I,  M  A  N  N.  255 

Baron,  when  fixing  his  eyes  intently  on  the  spectre,  he 
seemed  to  recognize  the  face  of  his  own  lost  Anna ! 

A  moment  more, — and  with  a  gentle  sigh, — such  a 
sigh  as  the  fir-trees  make  now  about  the  ruin, — the  figure 
had  vanished. 

The  old  Knight  went  down,  pale,  to  his  feast;  and 
the  guests  noticed  that  his  hand  shook  at  the  lifting  of  the 
first  goblet. 

At  the  second,  he  tried  to  rise,  but  trembled  in  his 
place : — a  young  guest  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  who 
had  been  a  favored  suitor  of  the  lost  Anna,  proposed 
defiance  to  the  knight,  who  had  stolen  the  Baron's 
daughter.  There  was  a  clatter  on  the  stair,  and  the 
hall-door  burst  open,  and  the  stranger  knight  in  glittering 
armor  strode  straight  up  to  the  daring  guest,  and  threw 
down  his  gauntlet,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  a  place  of 
meeting. 

The  Baron  could  give  no  order  for  his  terror: — the 
stranger  went  to  the  old  place  of  Hinzelmann,  and  filled 
a  goblet  with  red  wine,  and  drained  it  in  honor  of  The 
Good  Spirit ; — then  strode  haughtily  from  the  Hall.  The 
men-at-arms  stood  back,  and  the  porter  had  seen  nothing, 
he  said,  but  a  white  plume  floating  over  the  wicket. 
The  young  guest  was  brave,  and  went  to  meet  the 
stranger  knight,  but  came  not  again  to  the  castle. 

The  Baron  grew  silent  and  moody ;  and  by  his  next 
birth-night,  the  hairs  had  whitened  on  his  forehead.  He 
was  in  his  chamber,  the  evening  of  the  feast,  when  he 
was  startled  by  a  rustling  in  the  corner,  and  the  spectre 


256  Fresh   Gleanings. 

of  the  year  before  met  his  eyes  as  he  turned.  The  same 
slow,  sepulchral  tones  issued  from  the  shadowy  figure, 
conjuring  him  to  pledge  in  the  second  goblet,  The  Good 
Spirit,  Hinzelmann.  This  time  there  was  entreaty  in  the 
voice,  that  made  the  old  man  forget  his  terror;  and 
mindful  only  of  his  lost  daughter,  he  sprang  forward  to 
clasp  her ; — a  breath  of  cold  air, — a  gentle  sigh,  and  the 
vision  fled  from  his  touch. 

At  the  hour  of  the  opening  of  the  feast,  the  Seneschal 
announced,  that  a  stranger  knight,  with  a  lady  veiled  in 
white,  asked  admission  to  the  hospitalities  of  the  cha- 
teau. 

The  Baron  placed  them — one  on  his  right,  the  other 
on  his  left.  There  was  a  fearful  whisper  among  the 
guests, — that  the  knight  was  like  the  haughty  challenger 
of  the  year  before  ;  and  the  host  trembled,  for  he  thought 
the  voice  of  the  veiled  lady,  was  like  the  voice  in  his 
chamber. 

At  the  filling  of  the  first  goblet,  the  knight  put  up  his 
visor,  and  the  lady  drew  aside  her  veil.  The  company 
started  to  their  feet  in  horror,  for  within  the  helmet  of 
the  stranger,  was  a  white  skull,  and  under  the  veil  of  the 
lady,  were  the  death-white  features  of  the  lost  daughter 
of  the  Baron.  He  took  her  hand,  but  it  was  like  ice,  and 
he  heard  the  slow  voice  of  the  chamber  in  his  ear, — 
"  Remember !" 

He  filled  the  second  goblet,  and  pledged  Le  Bon 
Esprit. 

The  skull  turned  to  dust,  and  the  armor  fell  clanging 


HlNZELMANN.  257 

to  i  ie  floor;  the  death-face  of  the  virgin  bloomed  with 
life,  and  she  threw  her  arms — warm  now — round  the 
neck  of  her  old  father ;  and  the  door  burst  open,  and  in 
strode  the  valiant  young  knight,  who  had  fought  the 
strange  challenger,  and  he  clasped  his  Anna  once  more  ; 
— and  the  laugh  of  Hinzelmann  was  heard,  and  his  voice 
chanting  the  old  song  : — 

Maltre,  ici  Iaisse-moi  venir, 
Et  du  bonheur  tu  vas  joulr. 

It  was  a  gay  night  at  the  castle;  the  Baron's  youth 
came  back,  and  flagon  after  flagon  of  the  best  red  wine 
was  drained,  and  it  was  morning  when  the  feast  was 
ended. 

The  Baron  lived  to  a  good  old  age ;  the  young  knight 
and  the  daughter  were  united,  and  by  and  by  a  new 
Baron  was  born,  and  the  old  Baron  died.  Hinzelmann 
was  held  still  in  honor,  and  for  three  generations  kept  his 
place  at  the  hall-board.  Then  there  came  a  vicious  and 
wrong-headed  Baron,  who  hated  Hinzelmann  because  he 
was  honest,  and  chid  him  for  his  wickedness. 

Hinzelmann  chanted  louder  and  louder  the  last 
couplet  of  the  old  chanson,  but  the  Knight  heeded  it  not. 
His  vassals  dropped  away  one  by  one — his  deer  died  in 
the  valleys.  Finally  the  old  turrets  began  to  crumble 
and  fall.  The  Baron  fell  one  night,  half  drunken,  into 
the  oubliette  of  the  castle,  and  was  lost.  The  servitors 
were  frightened  away  from  the  ruined  walls  by  spectres. 
Some  said  they  saw  a  tall  horseman  in  armor,  with  a 


258  Fresh   Gleanings. 

virgin  in    white;  others   said  they   saw  a  white   plume 
floating  over  the  ruins,  and  heard  a  voice  chanting, — 

Mai3  de  ceans,  si  Ton  me  chasse, 
Le  malheur  y  prendra*  ma  place. 

Few  of  the  peasantry  wander  there  now  after  nightfall, 
If  it  had  been  the  day-time,  I  thought  I  would  have  liked 
to  have  gone  up,  and  rambled  over  the  ruin,  and  brought 
away  a  flower  or  two ;  but  as  it  was — dark,  with  only  a 
little  cold  moonlight,  I  was  very  glad  to  be  in  the  coach, 
with  Cameron  and  the  Count, — who  both  fell  fast  asleep 
before  we  got  to  Cilli. 


Cilli. 

"T7CTE  drove  into  a  dim  archway  at  midnight,  after 
crashing  half  through  the  paved  streets  of  a  town. 
We  had  eaten  nothing  from  the  time  we  had  left  Lai- 
bach  in  the  morning.  The  only  two  persons  who  were 
6tirring,  either  could  not,  or  would  not  understand  any 
thing  of  the  language  and  gestures  we  used,  to  convey 
our  wishes  for  something  to  eat.  We  had  learned  their 
dinner  terms,  but  it  is  not  very  surprising,  I  have  since 
thought,  that  they  did  not  understand  their  purport 
under  Scotch,  French,  and  American  accentuation — all 
uttered  together,  by  three  half-starved  foreigners,  at 
twelve  at  night. 


A    Night    Scene.  259 

The  stupid  fellows  stared  at  us,  with  an  occasional 
half  smile, — as  if  of  pity  for  such  ignorant  dogs,  and  were 
not  disposed  to  show  the  least  attention  to  the  Sacre, 
and  Diable  of  the  Count,  or  the  unexceptionable  En- 
glish oaths  of  Cameron.  At  length,  when  in  despair  we 
had  determined  to  find  our  way  to  the  kitchen  in  a  body, 
a  person  put  his  night-capped  head  out  of  the  top  window 
of  the  inn,  and  said,  in  as  good  English  as  you  would 
hear  in  the  court  of  the  "  Ship"  at  Dover, — Be  there 
directly,  gentlemen. 

Had  the  voice  come  from  heaven,  we  would  scarce 
have  been  more  surprised.  It  proved  to  be  a  cast-away 
valet  of  an  English  traveler,  who  was  serving  for  the 
time,  as  head  waiter  of  the  inn. 

We  managed  to  procure  a  cold  supper,  and  a  bottle  or 
two  of  tolerable  wine ;  and  on  that,  fell  to  dreaming  of 
sweet  English  voices. 


A   Night    Scene. 

/^~\UR  waiter  called  us  at  eight ;  he  should  have  called 
^-^  us  at  six.  It  gave  occasion  for  a  sharp  quarrel, 
which,  being  in  English,  was  quite  a  luxury  to  all  of  us, 
but  chiefly  to  Cameron,  who  conducted  it  very  effectively 
on  the  part  of  the  Count  and  myself. 

The  result  was — a  sorry  breakfast — an  extravagant  bill, 
and  a  shower  of  Hungarian  oaths,  as  we  dashed  out  of 


2C>0  Fresh    Gleanings. 

the  inn  court ;  and  in  ten  minutes  we  were  in  the  wild 
scenery  of  Styria. 

Though  it  was  hardly  mid-May,  the  women  in  their 
picturesque  hats, — which  were  no  more  than  broad  brims, 
with  a  round  knot  in  the  middle, — were  at  hay-making, 
through  all  the  grass-fields.  Immense  teams,  of  from 
fifteen  to  twenty  horses  each,  passed  us  on  the  way.  The 
cottages  had  an  exceedingly  neat  air.  There  were  oc- 
casional beggars,  but  they  had  not  the  winning  ways  of 
the  little  fellow  in  the  Southern  country. 

The  posts  were  long,  and  the  rain  threatening,  and 
thirty  to  forty  wearisome  leagues  lay  between  us  and 
Gratz.  We  had  hoped  to  reach  it  the  same  night.  At 
four,  we  took  a  miserable  dinner  in  the  dirty  town  of 
Marburg;  and  it  was  near  six,  when  we  set  off  in  a 
driving  rain.  In  a  half  hour  more  it  was  dark.  Fifteen 
leagues  lay  yet  between  us  and  Gratz. 

At  Marburg  they  had  told  us  there  was  an  inn  at  the 
second  post. 

We  discussed  long,  and  at  the  first  angrily,  the  ques- 
tion, whether  we  should  hold  on  our  way  spite  of  rain 
and  darkness  to  the  Styrian  Capital,  or  should  stop  the 
night  out  at  the  inn  of  the  second  post.  At  length  our 
empty  stomachs,  and  our  fatigue,  added  to  a  little  fear 
of  the  wild  country,  and  a  crazy-headed  driver,  decided 
us  on  the  earliest  practicable  stop. 

The  next  point  was — no  unimportant  one — to  make 
the  postmen,  and  stupid  postillions  understand  our 
new   disposition.      We  determined   to  try  our  vocabu- 


A   Night   Scene.  261 

lary  of  language  at  the  first  post  station, — hoping,  if  the 
intelligence  could  be  in  any  way  communicated  to  any 
human  tenant  of  the  house,  it  might  be  transmitted  by  the 
postillion. 

Unfortunately,  nobody  appeared  but  an  old  woman,  in 
a  night-cap. 

We  complimented  her  in  French  ; — nein — said  the 
old  woman. 

We  explained  ourselves  in  Italian  ; — niclits — said  the 
old  woman. 

We  entreated  her  in  our  phrase-book  German ;  — 
niclits — said  the  old  woman. 

Cameron  asked  her  in  good  Scotch, — what  the  D 1 

she  meant ; — nein — said  the  old  woman  ;  and  slammed 
the  door  in  our  face.  And  a  postillion  in  oil-skin  jumped 
upon  the  box,  and  we  rattled  away. 

A  church  clock  struck  ten. 

The  rain  increased,  and  an  occasional  burst  of  light- 
ning blazed  over  the  steep,  fir-covered  sides  of  mountains 
that  stretched  beside  us  ;  and  at  intervals  a  brighter  gleam 
would  shine  along  the  black  surface  of  a  raging  stream, 
that  for  the  last  half  hour  we  had  heard  below  us.  The 
dim  light  of  the  lanterns  glimmered, — now  upon  the  drip- 
ping branches  of  fir-trees  that  hung  half  over  the  road — 
now  broke  strongly  upon  a  gray  cliff,  as  if  we  were  riding 
in  some  monster  cavern ; — then  it  would  glinter  out  in 
feeble  rays  into  the  deep  darkness,  lighting  nothing  but 
the  scuds  of  rain ;  and  the  roar  of  the  waters  below,  told 
us  we  were  on  the  edg    ;>f  a  precipice. 


262  Fresh   Gleanings. 

Most  anxiously  we  looked  out  for  some  tokens  of  a 
town ;  still  the  lightning  broke  over  nothing  but  tall  for- 
ests, or  savage  dells  below  us. 

The  postillion  drove  like  a  madman ;  and  his  wild  Styrian 
oaths,  added  to  the  rattle  of  the  coach, — to  the  clattering 
of  the  horses'  hoofs,  and  the  rolling  of  the  thunder  among 
the  hills,  made  us  up  a  concert  as  wild,  as  it  was  fearful. 

At  every  glimpse  of  smooth  land,  which  the  lightning 
opened  to  view,  we  uttered  a  fervent  hope, — the  Count, 
Cameron,  and  myself, — that  the  ride  was  nearly  ended. 
Nor  did  we  remember  for  a  moment,  that  the  same  diffi- 
culties of  interpretation  might  occur  at  the  coming  post 
station,  as  at  the  last. 

Finally,  when  we  were  half  exhausted,  the  postillion 
blew  a  shrill  blast  on  his  bugle.  It  sounded  strangely 
mingled  with  the  mutterings  of  the  thunder. 

He  drew  up  to  the  door  of  the  post  station  :  it  was  all 
dark  and  closed.  He  blew  again,  and  again.  Finally,  a 
light  appeared  at  one  of  the  windows ;  a  bell  tinkled  in 
an  out-building;  and  presently  a  fat  old  Styrian,  half 
dressed,  appeared  at  the  door,  and  a  new  postillion  with  a 
fresh  pair  of  horses. 

We  addressed  the  old  Styrian,  as  we  had  addressed 
the  woman  of  the  back  station.  The  old  fellow  stared, — 
rubbed  his  eyes,  as  if  he  thought  he  was  not  thoroughly 
awake,  and  was  again  all  attention. 

We  played  him  a  perfect  pantomime  by  the  light  of 
the  lanterns.  The  old  man  gave  a  grim  smile,  and  turn- 
ed to  chat  with  our  postillion.     The  result  of  his  inquiries 


A   Night   Scene.  263 

seemed  to  be,  a  determination  to  get  rid  of  us  as  soon  as 
possible. 

Meantime  the  postillion  was  fast  removing  the  panting 
horses,  and  the  fresh  relay  was  waiting. 

—  Un  hotel, — said  the  Count,  emphasizing  with  a  ven- 
geance,— est  ce  qu'il  y  a  un  hdtel  ici  ? 

—  Yah,  yah, — said  the  fat  old  Styrian,  at  the  same  time 
hitching  up  his  breeches. 

—  Eh  Men — (like  a  flash), — nous  voulons  nous  y  arretcr. 

—  Yah, — said  the  postman;  and  the  postillion  had 
taken  away  his  horses,  and  the  others  were  nearly  on. 

—  Vogliamo  trovar  una  Locanda,  Signor — subito. 

—  Yah — yah,  yah, — said  the  half-dressed  Styrian.  The 
new  postillion  was  nearly  ready. 

—  Ein  Gasthof, — yelled  Cameron. 

—  Yah,  yah, — said  the  old  fellow,  and  gave  his  breeches 
another  hitch. 

The  postillion  jumped  on  the  box. 

—  D n  it,  we  want  to  stop, — shouted  Cameron. 

—  Yah, — said  the  fat  old  rascal,  and  shut  the  door ;  and 
the  coach  started. 

It  may  seem  very  simple  in  us,  that  we  did  not  get  out 
of  our  carriage ;  but  the  truth  was,  we  should  have  been 
no  nearer  the  hotel  out  of  the  carriage  than  in,  beside  the 
inconvenience  of  being  pelted  by  the  rain.  We  knew 
merely  from  our  informant  at  Marburg,  that  we  should 
find  a  hotel  shortly  before  reaching  the  second  post  sta- 
tion. 

And  whatever  difference  of  opinion  had  previously  ex- 


C64  Fresh  Gleanings. 

iited  among  us,  in  regard  to  stopping,  or  going  on  to 
Gratz,  there  was  now  a  manifest  coincidence  upon  the 
former  course ;  and  our  three  opinions  formed  an  aggre- 
gate of  determination,  which  we  thought  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult, for  either  postman  or  postillion  to  resist. 

We  restrained  for  a  moment  or  two  the  furw  of  our 
resolve,  hoping  the  coach  might  yet  turn  back.  It  was  a 
vain  hope.  At  a  desperate  speed  we  rattled  along  the 
brink  of  the  river,  on  whose  tumbling  surface  an  occa- 
sional gleam  of  the  lantern  shone  dismally. 

The  Count  screamed  a  volley  of  imprecations  at  the 
postillion,  who  at  length  stopped  his  headlong  pace, 
though  muttering  as  angrily  in  reply. 

The  Count  put  his  head  out  of  the  window.  It  was  an 
odd  scene — a  mad  Frenchman  berating  an  impudent 
knave  of  a  postillion,  in  a  merciless  rain,  at  midnight,  and 
neither  understanding  a  word  that  the  other  said.  The 
Count  gesticulated  furiously — Que  diable  J — un  Hotel — 
unc  Aubcrge,  nous  disons  / 

The  postillion  swore ; — the  Count  drew  in  his  head. 
The  knave  hesitated  a  moment, — muttered  something, 
evidently  intended  for  our  ignorant  ears,  and  drove  on  at 
the  same  mad  pace 

The  Count  shouted  again :  the  postillion  muttered 
louder,  and  gave  his  horses  a  new  thwack. 

We  all  screamed  together,  and  broke  open  the  coach 
door.  The  postillion  swore  again,  and  drew  up  his 
team. 

Cameron  jumped  out  into  the  rain,   and  ran  to  the 


A   Night   Scene,  265 

horses'  heads.  The  Count  surveyed  from  one  window, 
and  I  from  the  other.  Cameron  talked  very  impressive 
Scotch,  and  his  pantomime  would  have  done  honor  to  the 
witches  in  Macbeth.  Uncomfortable  as  was  our  position, 
we  could  not  resist  breaking  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

This  disturbed  the  poor  postillion  more  and  more 
With  a  madman  before,  and  two  crazy  fellows  inside,  as 
it  must  have  seemed  to  him,  he  was  sorely  perplexed. 
He  expostulated,  he  entreated,  he  explained, — I  dare  say 
in  very  good  Styrian  dialect.  Cameron  instructed,  con- 
futed, threatened,  in  equally  good  English.  We  at- 
tempted to  assist  matters,  by  throwing  in  a  little  French 
and  Italian  denunciation. 

The  postillion  in  despair,  uttered  what  seemed  a  round 
oath,  and  put  the  whip  to  his  horses.  Cameron  caught 
them  by  the  bit ; — they  started  back.  There  was  no  room 
for  any  fancy  evolutions,  there  on  the  brink  of  the  river. 
The  postillion  jumped  from  his  seat,  and  ran  to  his 
horses'  heads.  Cameron  caught  him  by  the  collar,  and 
pointed  back;  and  whether  it  was  the  gripe  or  the  ex- 
pression of  his  eye,  I  do  not  know,  but  the  knave  became 
convinced  that  there  was  no  going  farther  that  night. 

We  found  our  way  back  to  the  post  station ;  the  grum- 
bling old  Styrian  was  roused  again ;  we  left  him  grum- 
bling, and  hitching  up  his  breeches,  and  drove  to  the 
inn.  > 

Two  or  three  half-dressed  servants  received  us.  We 
were  in  no  humor  for  long  interpretations.  We  made 
our  own  way  to  the  kitchen,  and  took  possession  of  a 

M 


2b'G  Fresh    Gleanings. 

large  dish  of  milk,  and  a  loaf  of  bread;  and  slept  the 
night  out  quietly,  on  sheets  fringed  with  lace,  just  over 
the  banks  of  the  wild  Styrian  river. 


G  R  A  T  Z. 

"j^TEXT  day  by  noon,  we  were  in  the  old  town  of 
-L-  ^  Gratz.  Thence  a  railway  goes  to  Vienna,  so  we 
dismissed  our  Post  coach,  and  spent  the  afternoon  ram- 
bling about  the  town.  There  was  a  good  Hotel,  and  peo- 
ple with  Christian  tongues  to  serve  one. 

It  was  the  old  Styrian  Capital.  It  lies  on  a  spur  of 
mountains,  that  lie  like  a  long,  blue  cloud-bank  on  the 
horizon,  hours  before  you  reach  them.  A  fortress  is  on 
a  rock  in  the  middle  of  the  city,  and  there  is  a  mouldy 
old  cathedral,  into  which  I  wandered,  and  saw  the  women 
praying  at  noon,  before  the  altar.  The  streets  are  broad, 
and  on  the  hill  the  grass  grows  between  the  paving-stones ; 
the  houses  are  ancient,  and  gray  and  strong;  and  the 
townspeople  stare  one  in  the  face  prodigiously; — and 
this  is  all  I  know  about  them.  For  in  the  evening,  the 
Count,  and  Cameron  and  I,  counted  it  better  spending 
of  time,  to  talk  about  the  events  of  the  post  ride,  over 
some  ices  ordered  up  from  the  Restaurant, — than  to  b© 
wandering  over  the  gloomy  old  city. 


An   Austrian  Railway.  267 


An  Austrian    Railway. 

TT  was  as  if  I  was  in  America  again,  when  I  got,  next 
-*-  morning,  into  a  rail-carriage  of  American  fashion,  and 
found  myself  drawn — I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes — 
by  one  of  Norris's  Philadelphia  engines.  You  do  not 
know, — unless  you  have  experienced  the  same  thing, — ■ 
how  some  such  accident  of  travel,  linking  the  distant,  and 
the  Home-known,  by  a  sudden  slip-knot,  to  the  strange 
and  beguiling  Present  of  Foreign  scene,  —  you  do  not 
know,  I  say,  how  it  bewilders,  and  how  your  thought 
that  has  flowed  in  one  steady  current  of  quiet  admiration, 
is  all  at  once  stirred  into  a  thousand  eddies,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  memories  come  crowding  on  your  soul,  that  play 
the  deuce  with  all  your  searching  and  traveler-like  ob- 
servation. 

I  could,  however,  see  that  the  Austrians  have  yet  much 
to  learn  in  way  of  engineering ;  for  though  every  thing  is 
arranged  with  the  greatest  attention  to  safety,  there  is  little 
scientific  grading.  The  precautions  taken  to  prevent  col 
lision,  or  indeed  accident  of  any  kind,  are  almost  num 
berless ;  and  I  felt  as  safe  going  through  the  rugged 
defiles  of  middle  Austria — some  twenty-five  miles  in  the 
hour — as  here  in  my  elbow-chair. 

We  entered  at  once  into  scenery  of  exceeding  beauty 


268  Fresh    Gleanings. 

The  road  went  up  the  valley  of  a  mountain  river — wind- 
ing among  hills  covered  with  richest  vegetation.  It  re- 
minded me  strongly  of  Switzerland.  There  were  the 
same  wild  forms  of  firs  sweeping  down  whole  sides  of 
mountains.  There  were  the  same  green  slopes  of  hills, — 
sunny,  and  soft,  and  blossoming  with  tillage  far  up  along 
the  heights.  Sometimes  too,  they  broke  into  cliffs  of 
bald,  gray  limestone, — rough  and  jagged,  and  tumbled  out 
into  the  valley, — and  piled  aloft,  like  Gothic-wrought 
Sphinxes,  to  awe  the  weak  prattler  of  a  stream  that  gur- 
gled below. 

Nor  was  this  all  to  make  the  scenery  picturesque ;  for 
again  and  again,  Cameron  from  one  side  of  the  coach, 
and  I  from  the  other,  called  attention  to  some  old  rem- 
nant of  a  castle  seated  upon  the  tops  of  the  hills; — the 
blue  sky,  or  a  bit  of  black  cloud — for  clouds  were  scud- 
ding thick  and  fast — would  break  through  the  ruined 
loop-holes  with  magical  effect.  Sometimes  the  ruin 
sat  proud  and  scornful  upon  a  peak  of  rock ;  at  other 
times  upon  a  green  eminence,  with  trees  half  hiding 
it,  and  ivy  hanging  tresses  over  the  stones.  Once 
too,  we  saw  in  the  very  face  of  the  cliff,  a  little  cavern, 
where  a  hermit  had  placed  his  home ;  —  the  smoke 
was  oozing  from  one  of  its  small  windows  as  we 
passed. 

The  road  is  not  continuous  to  Vienna ;  for  a  chain 
of  mountains  stretches  right  athwart  the  route.  We 
took  carriages  to  cross  over.  It  grew  wild  as  we 
approached   the  top; — and   there,  amid    pine-trees   that 


An  Austrian   Railway.  269 

climb  up  on  either  side,  a  cloud  of  snow  came  over 
us.  But  between  the  scattered  flakes  we  could  see 
out  over  an  immense  country ; — first  low  hills,  that 
sloped  away  gradually  to  plain,  on  which,  in  broad, 
bright  spots  of  grain-fields,  and  of  grass,  the  sun  was 
playing,  as  in  Summer, — while  we  were  shivering  in 
the  winter  of  a  mountain  Spring. 

The  Danube  would  have  added  to  the  picture,  but 
unfortunately,  it  lay  too  far  away;  and  Vienna,  with  all 
its  spires,  did  not  even  glimmer  on  the  horizon.  Grain- 
fields  ran  away  to  mist  and  sky,  except  where  the  low- 
lying,  and  driving  snow-clouds  came  down  to  cover  them 
up. 

Down  two  leagues  of  zig-zag  descent  we  went  like  the 
wind.  The  pine-trees  hemmed  us  in,  though  not  so 
closely,  but  that  we  could  see  gems  of  valleys  in  the  sides 
of  the  mountains,  with  their  groups  of  gray-thatched 
houses,  and  flocks  of  goats,  and  bridges  leaping  frightful 
chasms  below  us,  and  the  same,  by  and  by,  hanging 
fearfully  above  our  heads. 

Away  we  went  sailing  again  over  the  carelessly 

cultivated  plain-land  that  stretches  on  toward  the  Capital. 
We  passed  villages,  and  broad  market-towns  lying  in  the 
flat ;  and  we  passed  the  baths  of  Baden,  on  a  lip  of  the 
hills,  that  there  come  curling  into  the  plain  ; — and  present- 
ly glimmering  on  the  level,  were  the  housetops  of  a  great 
and  crowded  city.  From  the  midst  of  them  rose  a  lofty 
and  beautiful  spire  ; — heavily  crusted  with  Gothic  sculp- 
ture, it  rose    above  the  houses; — solid,  anil   fair   in   its 


$70  Fresh    Gleanings. 

proportions  it  rose,  and  bore  up  griffin,  and  angel,  and 
turret,  and  golden  saint, — high  over  the  city. 

The  spire  was  the  spire  oflSt.  Stephens,  in  the  middle 
of  the  city  of  Vienna. 

You  know,  I  believe,  what  it  is,  when  a  boy — 

long  time  away  from  home,  at  school — first  comes  in  sight 
again  of  the  remembered  place;  the  letters  he  has  received 
have  been  carefully  read,  and  reread;  the  warm  expres- 
sions of  affection  he  regards  little — he  knows  all  that ;  but 
he  bears  in  his  topmost  thought  the  new  things  he  will 
see; — he  longs  to  see  Ben's  new  rocking-horse,  and  the 
little  boat — Tom's  birth-day  gift; — and  to  have  a  ride 
upon  the  poney  that  has  been  bought  for  sister  Kate; 
and  he  remembers — for  they  have  written  him — that  the 
trees  which  he  left  bare  at  Christmas,  will  be  all  tufted 
with  foliage,  and  will  sweep  down  upon  the  walks  ; — and 
that  the  old  yard  will  have  become  a  leafy  paradise ; — 
and  he  fancies  himself  rambling  over  the  wooded  hill- 
side,— building  up  the  stone  fort  on  a  ledge  of  the  cliffs, 
and  looking  around  to  see  if  the  chestnut-trees  be  promis- 
ing a  store  of  nuts ; — You  know,  I  say,  how  these  fancies 
throng  on  him,  as  he  comes  in  sight  of  the  tree-tops,  and 
yet  how  he  half  trembles  to  think — it  is  all  so  near — and 

that  the  dream  is  almost  ended  : Just  so,  as  I  sat  in  the 

carriage  before  Vienna,  with  my  thought  full  of  what  had 
been  heard,  and  read,  and  fancied,  of  its  stately  streets — 
its  princely  mansions — its  palaces — its  Great  Congress — 
its  entry  of  Napoleon — its  crown  of  Charlemagne — its 
splendid  cabinets — its  stores  of  art — its  glorious  music — its 


An   Austrian   Railway.  271 

luxurious  gardens 1  half  trembled  that  it  was  all  so 

near, — and  that  that  very  night  I  should  compose  myself 
to  sleep,  within  the  wall-encircled  city  of  the  august  Mon- 
arch of  the  ancient  House  of  Hapsburg. 


%  |)tpe  toitl)  %  Dutchmen. 


A   PIPE  WITH   THE   DUTCHMEN. 


The   Upper  Elbe. 


/^\LD  Prague  is  left  behind.  Its  quaint  houses,  its 
3£T.  garnet  jewels,  its  colored  glass,  its  house  of  Tycho 
Brahe — from  which  you  looked  over  the  battle-field — 
glorious  in  the  rays  of  sunset,  are  dimmed  to  memoiy, 
by  the  fresher  recollections  (Heaven  giant  they  be 
always  fresh !)  of  that  beautiful  river,  on  which  you 
glided  down  to  the  pleasant  Capital  of  Saxony. 

In  Europe,  or  our  own  country,  I  have  nowhere 
seen  richer  river  scenery  than  that  along  the  Elbe,  in 
its  progress  through  Saxon  Switzerland :  if  a  comparison 
is  to  be  made, — it  is  only  less  rich  in  association  than 
the  Rhine,  and  only  less  beautiful  than  the  Hudson. 

Undines,  young  and  fair,  inhabit  its  watei-s,  and  fabu 
lous  giants  stride  over  from  bank  to  bank.  And  gray, 
giant  rocks  pile  up  by  its  shores,  hundreds  of  feet  into 
the  air.  At  their  foot,  a  little  debris  sloping  to  the 
water  is  covered  with  forest  trees ;   and  upon  the  small, 


276  Fresh    Gleanings. 

level  summits  are  straggling  firs.  Between  these  isolated 
towers,  you  sometimes  get  glimpses  of  undulating  coun- 
try, backed  by  a  blue  pile  of  mountains.  At  other 
times,  these  towers  are  joined  by  a  rocky  wall — not  so 
smooth,  but  wilder  than  the  Palisades,  and  far  more 
fearful  to  look  on — for  you  sail  close  under  the  threaten- 
ing crag,  and  the  dark  tree-fringe  at  the  top  shuts  off 
the  light,  and  you  know  that  if  one  of  the  loosened 
fragments  were  to  fall,  it  would  crush  the  little  steamer 
you  are  upon. 

Now  you  are  free  of  the  frowning  terrors  of  the 

cliff,   and  go  gliding    down straight   upon   a   grassy 

knoll  that  stretches,  or  seems  to  stretch,  right  athwart 
the  stream.  Nearer  and  nearer  you  go,  until  you  can 
see  plainly  the  bottom,  and  the  grass  growing  down  into 
the  water ;  and  while  you  are  looking  upon  the  pretty 
pebbled  bed  of  the  river,  the  boat,  like  a  frightened  duck, 
shies  away  from  the  grassy  shore,  and  quickens  her  speed, 
and  shoots  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  brown  ramparts 
again.  Directly  under  them — not  seen  before — though 
you  thought  it  was  the  old  line  of  rampart,  a  white 
Village  nestles  among  vines  and  fruit-trees;  and  you 
pass  so  near  it,  that  you  can  see  the  old  women  at  their 
knitting  in  the  cottages,  and  hear  the  pleasant  prattle  of 
children. 

The  prattle  of  the  children  dies  away,  and  you  glide 
into  forest  silence  again. No  sound  now,  save  the  plash- 
ing of  your  boat  in  the  water, — or  the  faint  crash  of  a 
fir-tree,  felled  by  some  mountain  woodsman,  on  a  distant 


The   Lower    Elbe.  277 

height, — or  the  voice  of  some  screaming  eagle,  circling 
round  the  pinnacled  rocks. 

Koningstein,  the  virgin  fortress,  never  yet  taken  in  war, 
throws  its  shadow  black  as  ink  across  the  stream  j  and 
as  you  glide  under  its  overhanging  cliffs — looking  straight 
up,  you  can  see  the  sentinel,  on  the  highest  bastion, 
standing  out  against  the  sky — no  bigger  than  your 
thumb. 

And  this  is  not  the  half,  that  one  can  see,  in  go- 
ing down  the  Elbe,  from  Leitmeritz  to  the  Saxon 
Capital. 


The    Lower   Elbe. 

TTVRESDEN  too,  is  left  behind — a  beautiful  city.  It 
-*-,  reminds  one  who  has  been  in  the  Scottish  Highlands 
of  Perth.  The  mountains  of  the  Saxon  Switzerland 
take  the  place  of  the  blue  line  of  Grampians  ; — the  valley 
of  the  Elbe,  in  surface  and  cultivation,  brings  vividly  to 
mind  the  view  of  the  Scotch  valley,  from  the  heights 
above  the  castle  of  Kinfauns ; — and  just  such  a  long, 
stone-arched  bridge  as  crosses  the  *  silvery  Tay,'  may  be 
seen  spanning  the  river  at  Dresden. 

It  made  me  very  sad  to  leave  Dresden.  It  has  just 
that  sort  of  quiet  beauty  that  makes  one  love  to  linger, — 
and  made  me  love  to  linger,  though  Cameron  and  our 
Italian  companion,  11  Mercante,  who  had  joined  us  in 


278  Fresh    Gleanings. 

place  of  Le  Comte,  were  both  urging  on  toward  the 
Northern  capitals. 

So  we  left  the  Elbe,  and  for  a  long  month  saw  no  more 
of  it. 

We  came  in  sight  of  it  again  at  Magdebourg — where, 
if  the  old  legends  are  true,  (and  I  dare  say  there  is  more 
truth  in  them  than  people  think,  if  they  would  but  get 
at  the  bottom  of  the  matter)  there  lived  in  the  river  a 
whimsical  water-sprite.  She  was  pretty — for  she  ap- 
peared under  likeness  of  a  mischievous  girl, — and  used 
to  come  up  into  the  village  to  dance  with  the  inhabitants, 
at  all  the  fetes; — and  she  wore  a  snow-white  dress  and 
blue  turban,  and  had  a  prettier  foot  and  more  lan- 
guishing eye,  than  any  maid  of  Magdebourg. 

The  result  was — she  won  the  heart  of  a  youngster  of 
the  town,  who  followed  her  away  from  the  dance  to  the 
liver's  brink,  and  plunged  in  with  her.  The  villagers 
looked  to  see  them  appear  again  ;  but  all  they  saw,  was  a 
gout  of  blood  floating  in  a  little  eddy  upon  the  top  of  the 
water. 

They  say  it  appears  every  year,  on  the  same  day  and 
hour  ;* — we  were,  unfortunately,  a  month  too  late ;  and  I 
saw  nothing  in  the  river  but  a  parcel  of  clumsy  barges 
— a  stout  washerwoman  or  two,  and  a  very  dirty  steamer, 
on  board  which  I  was  going  down  to  Hamburg. 

*  Tradition  Orale  de  Magdebourg.  MM.  Grimm.  This,  and 
the  following  legend  will  remind  the  reader  of  Carleton's  ballad  of 
Sir  Turlough,  or  the  Church  Yard  Bride ;  and  also  of  Scott's  Glen* 
finlas. 


The    Lower   Elbe.  279 

Another  old  story  runs  thus  : 

A  young  man,  and  beautiful  maiden  of  Magdebourg, 
were  long  time  betrothed.  At  length,  when  the  nuptials 
approached,  he  who  should  have  been  the  bridegroom, 
was  missing.  Search  was  made  every  where,  and  he  was 
not  to  be  found. 

A  famous  Magician  was  consulted,  and  informed  the 
bereaved  friends,  that  the  missing  bridegroom  had  been 
drawn  under  the  river  by  the  Undine  of  the  Elbe. 

The  Undine  of  the  Elbe  would  not  give  him  up,  except 
the  bride  should  take  his  place.  To  this,  the  bride,  like 
an  exemplary  woman,  consented, — but  her  parents  did 
not. 

The  friends  mourned  more  and  more,  and  called  upon 
the  Magician  to  reveal  the  lost  man  again  to  their  view. 
So  he  brought  them  to  the  bank  of  the  river — our  steam- 
er was  lying  near  the  spot — and  uttered  his  spells,  and 
the  body  of  the  lost  one  floated  to  the  top,  with  a  deep 
red  gash  in  the  left  breast. 

It  seems  there  were  stupid,  inquiring  people  in  those 
days,  who  said  the  Magician  had  murdered  the  poor  soul 
of  a  lover,  and  used  his  magic  to  cover  his  rascality ;  but 
fortunately,  such  ridiculous  explanations  of  the  weird 
power  of  the  Undine,  were  not  at  all  credited. 

I  should  think  the  Undine  had  now  and  then  a  dance 
upon  the  bottom  of  the  river ; — for  the  Elbe  is  the  muddiest 
Btream,  all  the  way  from  Magdebourg  to  Hamburg,  that 
I  ever  sailed  upon. 


280  Fresh  Gleanings. 


Traveling   Companions. 

T  SHOULD  say,  if  I  have  not  already  said  as  much, 
-■-  that  half  the  advantage  of  European  travel,  consists 
not  so  much  in  observation  of  customs  of  particular  cities 
or  provinces,  as  in  contrast  and  comparison  of  different 
habits, — characteristics  of  different  countries,  as  repre- 
sented in  your  fellow-voyageurs,  on  all  the  great  routes  of 
travel. 

You  may  see  Cockney  habit  in  London,  and  Parisian 
habit  at  Paris,  a  -•!  Danish  habit  at  Copenhagen,  and 
Prussian  habit  at  lettin,  and  Italian  habit  at  Livourne ; 
— but  you  shall  se«  Jhem  all,  and  more,  contrasted  on  the 
deck  of  the  little  bV,  imer  that  goes  down  the  lower  Elbe 
to  Hamburg.  And  it  is  this  Cosmopolitan  sort  of  obser- 
vation, by  which  you  are  enabled  to  detect  whose  habit  is 
most  distinctive  in  character, — whose  habit  most  easily 
blends  with  general  or  local  habit,  that  will  give  one  an 
opportunity  for  study  of  both  individual  and  national  pecu- 
liarity— not  easily  found  elsewhere. 

The  Englishman  in  his  stiff  cravat,  you  will  find  in  all 
that  regards  dress,  manner,  companionship,  and  topic  of 
conversation,  the  most  distinctive  in  habit  of  all. 

He  can  not  wear  the  German  blouse,  or  the  French 
sack ;  he  can  not  assume  the  easy  manner  of  the  Parisian, 
nor  the  significant  carriage  of  the  Italian.     In  choosing 


Traveling   Companions.  281 

his  companions,  he  avoids  the  English,  because  they  are 
countrymen,  and  every  one  else,  because  they  are  not 
English.  The  consequence  is,  if  he  does  not  cross  the 
Channel  with  a  companion,  or  find  one  at  Paris,  he  is 
very  apt  to  go  through  the  country  without  one. 

Whatever  may  be  his  conversation — its  foci  are  British 
topics.  If  he  discusses  the  hotel,  he  can  not  forbear  al 
luding  to  the  "  Bell"  at  Gloucester,  or  the  "  Angel"  at 
Liverpool : — if  of  war,  it  is  of  Marlborough,  and  Welles- 
ley.  He  seems  hardly  capable  of  entertaining  an  en- 
larged idea,  which  has  not  some  connection  with  Eng- 
land ;  and  he  would  very  likely  think  it  most  extraordi- 
nary, that  a  clever  man  could  sustain  any  prolonged 
conversation,  without  a  similar  connection. 

The  Frenchman,  bustling  and  gracious,  is  distinctive  in 
whatever  regards  his  language  or  food,  and  also  in  some 
measure,  in  topic. 

He  would  be  astonished  to  find  a  man  in  Kamtschatka 
who  did  not  speak  French ;  and  if  a  chattering  Undine 
had  risen  above  the  surface  of  the  Elbe,  our  little  French 
traveler  would  not  have  been  half  as  much  surprised  at 
the  phenomenon  of  her  rising,  as  to  hear  her  talking  Ger- 
man, 

He  is  never  satisfied  with  his  dinner ; — he  can  neither 
eat  English  beef,  nor  German  pies,  nor  Italian  oil. — Mon 
Dieu  !  quelle  mauvaise  cuisine  ! — is  the  blessing  he  asks 
at  every  meal ;  and — Mon  Dieu  !  c'est  fini.  J 'en  suis 
bien  aise, — are  the  thanks  he  returns. 

His  politesse  will  induce  him  to  follow  whatever  topic 


282  Fresh   Gleanings. 

of  conversation  may  be  suggested ;  but  this  failing,  his 
inexhaustible  resources,  as  you  meet  him  on  travel,  are 
Les  Femmes,  and  La  France. 

The  Russian,  if  he  has  only  been  in  a  civilized  country 
long  enough  to  shake  off  a  little  of  his  savage  manner,  is 
far  less  distinctive  than  either.  He  cares  little — how  he 
dresses — what  he  eats,  or  in  what  language  he  talks.  In 
Rome  you  would  take  him  for  an  Italian, — in  the  Dili- 
gence for  a  Frenchman — at  sea  for  an  Englishman  ;  and 
in  trading  only,  for  a  Russian. 

The  German — setting  aside  his  beard  and  his  pipe— - 
(which  last  is  not  easily  set  aside)  is  also  little  distinctive 
in  conversational,  or  personal  habit.  You  will  detect  him 
easiest  at  table,  and  by  his  curious  questionings. 

The  Italian  leams  easily  and  quickly  to  play  the  Cos- 
mopolite in  dress,  speech,  action,  and  in  conversation  too 
— so  long  as  there  is  no  mention  of  Art.  Touch  only  this 
source  of  his  Passion,  and  he  reveals  in  a  twinkling  his 
Southern  birth. 

The  American — and  here  1  hesitate  long,  knowing  that 
my  observation  will  be  submitted  to  the  test  of  a  more 
rigorous  examination — is  in  disposition  least  wedded  to 
distinctiveness  of  all.  In  lack  of  aptitude  he  betrays  him- 
self. His  travel  being  hasty,  and  not  often  repeated,  he 
has  not  that  cognizance  of  general  form,  which  the  Rus- 
sian and  Italian  gain  by  their  frequent  journeyings. 

Nor  in  point  of  language  will  he  have  the  adaptiveness 
of  the  Russian ; — both  from  lack  of  familiarity  with  con- 
versational idiom,  and  lack  of  that  facility  in  acquisition, 


Traveling   Companions.  283 

which  seems  to  belong  peculiarly  to  the  holders  of  the 
Sclavonic  tongue. 

Again, — in  way  of  adaptation  to  European  life,  there  is 
something  harder  yet,  for  the  American  to  gain  : — it  is  the 
cool,  half-distant,  world-like  courtesy  which  belongs  to 
a  people  among  whom  rank  obtains,  and  which  is  the 
very  opposite  to  the  free,  open,  dare-devil,  inconsiderate 
manner,  that  the  Westerner  brings  over  the  ocean  with 
nim. 

Nor  is  the  American,  in  general,  so  close  an  observer 
of  personal  habit  as  the  European.  Those  things  natu- 
rally attract  most  his  attention,  to  which  he  is  most  un- 
used ;  he  can  tell  you  of  the  dress  of  royalty, — of  the  Pa- 
pal robes,  and  of  the  modes  at  an  Imperial  ball ;  but  of 
the  every-day  dress  and  manner  of  gentlemen,  and  their 
after-dinner  habit  and  topics,  he  may  perhaps  know  very 
little. 

Still,  in  disposition  he  is  adaptive :  what  he  detects  he 
adopts.  He  is  not  obstinate  in  topic  or  dress  like  the  En- 
glishman, nor  wedded  to  his  speech  or  his  dinner,  like  the 
Frenchman.  He  slips  easily  into  change.  In  England 
he  dines  at  six,  with  roast  beef  and  ale.  At  Paris,  he 
takes  his  cafe,  and  fricandeau,  and  vin  ordinaire,  and 
thinks  nothing  can  be  finer.  At  Rome  he  eats  macca- 
roni  al  burro,  and  sets  down  in  his  note-book — how  to 
cook  it.  At  Barcelona  he  chooses  rancid  butter,  and 
wonders  he  ever  loved  it  fresh ;  and  on  the  Rhine,  he 
takes  a  bit  of  the  boiled  meat,  a  bit  of  the  stew,  a  bit  of 
the  tart,  a  bit  of  the  roast,  a  bit  of  the  salad,  with  a  bottle 


284  Fresh    Gleanings. 

of  Hocheimer,  and  the  memory  of  all  former  dinners  is 
utterly  eclipsed. 

In  Vienna  he  will  wear  a  beard, — in  France  a  mous- 
tache,— in  Spain  a  cloak, — and  in  England  a  white  cra- 
vat. And  if  he  but  stay  long  enough  to  cure  a  certain 
native  extravagance  of  manner, — to  observe  thoroughly 
every-day  habit,  and  to  instruct  himself  in  the  idioms  of 
speech,  he  is  the  most  thorough  Worlds-man  of  any. 

It  has  occurred  to  me,  while  setting  down  these  obser- 
vations, that  their  faithfulness  would  be  sustained  by  an 
attentive  examination  of  the  literary  habit  of  the  several 
nations,  of  which  I  have  spoken.  Thus,  Russia — careless 
of  her  own  literature,  accepts  that  of  the  world ;  England, 
tenacious  of  British  topic,  is  cautious  in  alliance  with 
whatever  is  foreign. 

But  I  have  no  space  to  pursue  the  parallel  further. 
The  curious  reader  can  do  it  at  his  leisure,  while  I  go 
back  to  our  floating  bateau  on  the  Elbe. 


The   Elbe 

A  DAY  and  a  night  we  were  floating  down  the  river. 
The  banks  were  low  and  sedgy — not  worth  a  look. 
A  chattering  little  Frenchman  detailed  to  us  his  adven- 
tures in  Russia.  A  clumsy  Englishman  was  discoursing 
with  a  Norwegian  merchant  upon  trade 

It  was  the  sixteenth  day  of  June,  and  the  air  hot  aa 


The    Elbe.  285 

hottest  summer.  Night  came  in  with  a  glorious  sunset. 
For  every  thing  that  we  could  see  of  the  low  country- 
Westward  was  gold-yellow ;  the  long  sedge-leaves  waved 
glittering,  as  if  they  had  been  dipped  in  golden  light,  and 
fields  following  fields  beyond  them :  and  Eastward,  save 
where  the  black  shadow  of  our  boat,  and  its  clouds  of 
smoke  stretched  a  slanted  mile  over  the  flat  banks,  the 
color  of  grass,  and  shrub,  and  every  thing  visible  was 
golden, — golden  grain-fields,  and  fields  far  beyond  them, 
golden  and  golden  still, — till  the  color  blended  in  the  pale 
violet  of  the  East — far  on  toward  Northern  Poland  ; — and 
the  pale  violet — clear  of  clouds — rolled  up  over  our  heads 
into  a  purple  dome.  By  and  by  the  dome  was  studded 
with  stars ; — the  awning  of  our  boat  was  furled ; — and 
we  fay  about  the  deck,  looking  out  upon  the  dim,  shad- 
owy shore  and  to  the  West,  where  the  red  light  lin- 
gered. 

Morning  came  in  thick  fog ;  but  the  shores,  when  we 
could  see  them,  were  better  cultivated,  and  farm-houses 
made  their  appearance. 

Presently  Dutch  stacks  of  chimneys  threw  their  long 
shadows  over  the  water;  and  with  Peter  Parley's  old 
story-book  in  my  mind,  I  saw  the  first  storks'  nests.  The 
long-legged  birds  were  lazing  about  the  house-tops  in  the 
sun,  or  picking  the  seeds  from  the  sedgy  grass  in  the 
meadow. 

The  Frenchman  had  talked  himself  quiet.  Cameron 
was  asleep. 

Two   or  three  Dutchmen  were  whining  silently  and 


286  Fresh    Gleanings. 

earnestly  at  their  pipes,  in  the  bow  of  the  boat, — looking 
out  for  the  belfries  of  Hamburg. 

To  relieve  the  tedium,  I  thought  I  could  do  no 

better  myself; — so  I  pulled  out  my  pipe  that  had  bome 
me  company  all  through  France  and  Italy,  (it  lies  yet  in 
my  writing-case,) — and  begged  a  little  tobacco,  and  a 
light, — —it  was  my  first  Pipe  with  the  Dutchmen. 


Hamburg. 

/CAMERON  would  not  go  with  me  to  Bremen: — so  I 
™*  left  him  at  Hamburg — at  dinner — at  the  table  of 
the  Kronprinzen  Charles,  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
Jungfernstieg . 

There  was,  it  is  true,  a  great  deal  to  detain  him  in  the 
old  free  city  : — there  was  the  Alster,  stretching  out  under 
our  chamber  windows  in  a  broad  sheet,  with  elegant 
new  houses  flanking  it, — with  little  skiffs  paddling  over  it, 
from  which  the  music  floated  up  to  our  ears  at  eventide ; 
and  beyond  it  was  the  belt  of  road,  along  which  dashing 
equipages  ran  all  day,  and  from  which  rose  up  out  of  the 
very  edge  of  the  water,  the  great  windmill  that  flung  the 
black  shadows  of  its  slouching  arms,  half  way  to  the 
"  Maiden's  walk,"  when  the  sun  was  riding  over  the  tops 
of  the  gardens  of  Vierland. 

Jenny  Lind  was  coming  to  sing  to  the  Hamburgers, 
and  Cameron  had  secured   a  seat:    besides  there  were 


Hamburg.  287 

two  beautiful  Russian  girls  sitting  vis  a  vis  at  the  table 
where  I  left  him,  and  a  Swedish  bride,  as  pretty  as  the 
picture  of  Potiphar's  wife,  in  the  palace  of  Barberini  at 
Rome.  And  there  was  a  gay  little  Prussian  girl,  who 
could  speak  just  enough  English  to  enlist  the  sympathies 
of  my  Scotch  friend,  and  to  puzzle  prodigiously  her  staid 
German  Papa.  I  know  very  well,  by  the  mischief  that 
was  in  her  eye,  that  she  did  not  translate  truly  to  her 
Papa,  all  the  little  gossip  that  passed  between  her  and 
fun-loving  Cameron,  or  my  friend  would  have  had,  as 
sure  as  the  world,  a  snatch  of  the  old  man's  cane. 

Whether  it  was  such  company,  or  the  "hung  beef" 
that  held  him,  Cameron  would  not  go  with  me  to 
Bremen. 

1  could  have  staid  at  Hamburg  myself.     It  is  a 

queer  old  city,  lying  just  where  the  Elbe,  coming  down 
from  the  mountains  of  Bohemia,  through  the  wild  gaps  of 
Saxony  and  everlasting  plains  of  Prussia,  pours  its 
muddy  waters  into  a  long  arm  of  the  Mer  du  Nord. 

The  new  city,  built  over  the  ruins  of  the  fire  is  elegant, 
and  almost  Paris-like ;  and  out  of  it,  one  wanders,  before 
he  is  aware,  into  the  narrow  alleys  of  the  old  Dutch 
gables.  And  blackened  cross-beams  and  overlapping 
roofs,  and  diamond  panes,  and  scores  of  smart  Dutch 
caps,  are  looking  down  on  him  as  he  wanders  entranced. 
It  is  the  strangest  contrast  of  cities  that  can  be  seen  in 
Europe.  One  hour,  you  are  in  a  world  that  has  an  old 
age  of  centuries ; — pavements,  sideways,  houses,  every 
thing  old,  and  the  smoke  curling  in  an  old-fashioned  way 


288  Fresh    Gleanings. 

out  of  monstrous  chimney-stacks,  into  the  murky  sky : — 
five  minutes'  walk  will  bring  one  from  the  midst  of  this 
into  a  region  where  all  is  shockingly  new : — Parisian 
shops,  with  Parisian  plate-glass  in  the  windows — 
Parisian  shopkeepers,  with  Parisian  gold  in  the  till. 
The  contrast  was  tonnenting.  Before  the  smooth-cut 
shops  that  are  ranged  around  the  basin  of  the  Alster,  I 
could  not  persuade  myself  that  I  was  in  the  quaint  old 
Hanse  town  of  Jew  brokers,  and  storks'  nests,  that  1  had 
come  to  see ;  or  when  I  wandered  upon  the  quays  that 
are  lined  up  and  down  with  such  true  Dutch-looking 
houses,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  out  of  all  reach  of  the 
splendid  hotel  of  the  Crown  Prince,  and  the  prim  porter 
who  sports  his  livery  at  the  door.  The  change  was  as 
quick  and  unwelcome  as  that  from  pleasant  dreams,  to 
the  realities  of  morning. 

Quaint  costumes  may  be  seen  all  over  Hamburg: — 
chiefest  among  them,  are  the  short,  red  skills  of  the  flower- 
girls,  and  the  broad-brimmed  hats,  with  no  crowns  at  all, 
set  jauntily  on  one  side  a  bright,  smooth  mesh  of  dark 
brown  hair,  from  which  braided  tails  go  down  half  to 
their  feet  behind.  They — the  girls — wear  a  basket  hung 
coquettishly  on  one  arm,  and  with  the  other  will  offer  you 
roses,  from  the  gardens  that  look  down  on  the  Alster, 
with  an  air  that  is  so  sure  of  success,  one  is  ashamed  to 
disappoint  it. 

Strange  and  solemn-looking  mourners  in  black,  with 
white  ruffles  and  short  swords,  follow  coffins  through  the 
streets ;  and  at  times,  when  the  dead  man  has  been  re- 


Hamburg.  289 

nowned,  one  of  them  with  a  long  trumpet  robed  in  black, 
is  perched  in  the  belfry  of  St.  Michael's, — the  highest  of 

Hamburg, — to  blow  a  dirge. Shrilly  it  peals  over  the 

peaked  gables,  and  mingles  with  the  mists  that  rise  over 
the  meadows  of  Heligoland.  The  drosky-men  stop,  to 
let  the  prim  mourners  go  by ; — the  flower  girls  draw  back 
into  the  shadows  of  the  street,  and  cross  themselves,  and 
for  one  little  moment  look  thoughtful ; — the  burghers  take 
off  their  hats  as  the  black  pall  goes  dismally  on.  The 
dirge  dies  in  the  tower;  and  for  twelve  hours  the  body 
rests  in  the  sepulchral  chapel,  with  a  light  burning  at  the 
head,  and  another  at  the  feet. 

There  would  be  feasting  for  a  commercial  eye  in  the 
old  Hanse  houses  of  Hamburg  trade.  There  are  piles 
of  folios  marked  by  centuries,  instead  of  years— corre- 
spondences in  which  grandsons  have  grown  old,  and  be- 
queathed letters  to  grandchildren.  As  likely  as  not,  the 
same  smoke-browned  office  is  tenanted  by  the  same  re- 
spectable-looking groups  of  desks,  and  long-legged  stools 
that  adorned  it,  when  Frederic  was  storming  over  the  South 
kingdoms — and  the  same  tall  Dutch  clock  may  be  ticking 
in  the  comer,  that  has  ticked  off  three  or  four  generations 
past,  and  that  is  now  busy  with  the  fifth, — ticking  and 
ticking  on. 

I  dare  say  that  the  snuff-taking  book-keepers  wear  the 
same  wigs,  that  their  grandfathers  wore ;  and  as  for  the 
snuff-boxes,  and  the  spectacles,  there  is  not  a  doubt  but 
they  have  come  down  with  the  ledgers,  and  the  day-books, 
from  an  age  that  is  utterly  gone. 

N 


290  F  ii  e  B  u    Gleanings. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  made  a  Dresden  Coun- 
selor my  friend,  upon  the  little  boat  that  came  down  from 
Magdebourg;  and  the  Counselor  took  ice  with  me  at 
the  Cafe  on  the  Jungfernsticg,  and  chatted  with  me  at 
table;  and  after  dinner,  kindly  took  me  to  see  an  old 
client  of  his,  of  whom  he  purchased  a  monkey,  and  two 
stuffed  birds.  Whether  the  old  lady,  his  client,  thought 
me  charmed  by  her  treasures,  I  do  not  know ;  though  I 
stared  prodigiously  at  her  and  her  Counselor;  and  she 
slipped  her  card  coyly  in  my  hand  at  going  out,  and  has 
expected  me,  I  doubt  not,  before  this,  to  buy  one  of  her 
long-tailed  imps,  at  the  saucy  price  often  louis-d'or. 

All  this,  and  a  look  at  the  demure-faced,  pretty 

Danish  country  girls  toward  Altona,  and  a  ride  in  a  one- 
horse  gig  through  the  garden  country  of  Vierland, — cot- 
tages peeping  out  on  each  side  the  way,  upon  a  true 
English  road,  and  haymakers  in  the  fields  at  sunsetting, 
with  their  rakes  on  their  shoulders,  throwing  long  shadows 
over  the  new-mown  turf — all  this,  I  say,  I  had  to  leave 
behind  me  on  going  to  Bremen. 

But  my  decision  was  made ;  my  bill  paid  ;  the  drosky 
at  the  door.  I  promised  to  meet  Cameron  at  the  Oude 
Doelen  at  Amsterdam,  and  drove  off  for  the  steamer  for 
Harbourg. 


Ride   to   Bremen.  291 


Ride   to   Bremen. 

1  NEVER  quite  forgave  myself  for  leaving  Cameron 
to  quarrel  out  the  terms  with  the  valet- de-place  at  the 
Crown  Prince ;  for  which  I  must  be  owing  him  still,  one 
shilling  and  sixpence ;  for  I  never  saw  him  afterward,  and 
long  before  this,  he  must  be  tramping  over  the  Muirs 
of  Lanarkshire  in  the  blue  and  white  shooting  jacket,  we 
bought  on  the  Quay  at  Berlin. 

It  was  a  fete  day  at  Hamburg ;  and  the  steamer  that 
went  over  to  Harbourg  was  crowded  with  women  in 
white.  I  was  quite  at  a  loss  among  them,  in  my  sober 
traveling  trim,  and  I  twisted  the  brim  of  my  Roman  hat 
over  and  over  again,  to  give  it  an  air  of  gentility ;  but  it 
would  not  do; — and  the  only  acquaintance  I  could  make, 
was  a  dirty-looking,  sandy-haired  small  man,  in  a  greasy 
coat,  who  asked  me  in  broken  English,  if  I  was  going  to 
Bremen.  As  I  could  not  understand  one  word  of  the 
jargon  of  the  others  about  me,  I  thought  it  best  to  secure 
the  acquaintance  of  even  so  unfavorable  a  specimen.  It 
proved,  that  he  was  going  to  Bremen  too,  and  he  advised 
me  to  go  with  him  in  a  diligence  that  set  off  immediately 
on  our  arrival  at  Harbourg.  As  it  was  some  time  before 
the  mail  carriage  would  leave,  I  agreed  to  his  proposal. 

It  was  near  night  when  we  set  off,  and  never  did  I  pass 
over  duller  country,  in  duller  coach,  and  duller  company. 


292  Fresh   Gleanings. 

—  Nothing  but  wastes  on  either  side,  half  covered  with 


heather ;  and  when  cultivated  at  all,  producing  only  a  light 
crop  of  rye,  which  here  and  there,  flaunted  its  yellow 
heads  over  miles  of  country.  The  road,  too,  was  execra- 
bly paved  with  round  stones, — the  coach,  a  rattling,  crazy, 
half  made,  and  half  decayed  diligence.  A  shoemaker's 
boy  and  my  companion  of  the  boat,  who  proved  a  Bremen 
Jew,  were  with  me  on  the  back  seat,  and  two  little  win- 
dows were  at  each  side,  scarce  bigger  than  my  hand. 
Three  tobacco-chewing  Dutch  sailors  were  on  the  middle 
seat,  who  had  been  at  Bordeaux,  and  Jamaica,  and  the 
Cape;  and  in  front  was  an  elderly  man  and  his  wife — 
the  most  quiet  of  all, — for  the  woman  slept,  and  the  man 
smoked. 

The  little  villages  passed,  were  poor,  but  not  dirty, 
and  the  inns  despicable  on  every  account  but  that  of  filth. 
The  sailors  at  each,  took  their  schnapps ;  and  I,  at  inter- 
vals, a  mug  of  beer  or  dish  of  coffee. 

The  night  grew  upon  us  in  the  midst  of  dismal  land- 
scape, and  the  sun  went  down  over  the  distant  rye  fields, 
like  a  sun  at  sea.  Nor  was  it  without  its  glory : — the 
old  man  who  smoked,  pulled  out  his  pipe,  and  nudged 
his  wife  in  the  ribs;  and  the  sailors  laid  their  heads 
together.  The  Sun  was  the  color  of  blood,  with  a  strip 
of  blue  cloud  over  the  middle ;  and  the  reflections  of  light 
were  crimson — over  the  waving  grain  tops,  and  over 
the  sky,  and  over  the  heather  landscape. 

Two  hours  after,  it  was  dark,  and  we  tried  to  sleep. 
The  shoemaker  smelt  strong  of  his  bench,  and  the  Jew  of 


Bremen.  293 

his  old  clothes,  and  the  sailors,  as  sailors  always  smell, 
and  the  coach  was  shut ;  so  it  was  hard  work  to  sleep,  and 
I  dare  say  it  was  but  little  after  midnight,  when  I  gave  it 
up,  and  looked  for  the  light  of  the  next  day. 

—  It  came  at  last,  a  white  streak  along  the  horizon, 
but  disclosed  no  better  country;  nor  did  we  see  better 
until  the  Jew  had  put  on  his  bands,  and  said  his  Hebraic 
service  by  the  fair  light  of  morning,  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
city  of  Bremen. 


Bremen. 

j"  NEVER  want  to  go  to  Bremen  again.  There  are 
-*-  pretty  walks  upon  the  ramparts,  and  there  is  old  hock 
under  the  Hotel  de  Ville  in  enormous  casks,  and  there 
are  a  parcel  of  mummied  bodies  lying  under  the  church, 
that  for  a  silver  mark,  Hamburg  money,  the  sexton  will 
be  delighted  to  show  one;  but  the  townspeople,  such  of 
them  as  happened  about  the  Linden-hof,  upon  the  great 
square,  seemed  very  stupid ;  and  not  one  could  tell  me 
how  I  was  to  get  to  Amsterdam. 

In  this  strait,  I  had  a  wish  to  find  the  Consul ;  and  the 
garqon,  a  knowing  fellow,  took  me  to  a  magnificent 
portal,  on  which  were  the  blended  arms  of  all  the  South 
American  States.  I  told  him  it  would  not  do — that  there 
must  be  stars  and  stripes ;  at  which  he  stared  very  pite- 
ously  at  me,  seeming  to  think  I  was  a  little  touched  in 


29 1  Frksh   Gleanings. 

the  brain.  But  after  some  further  inquiries,  I  found  my 
way  to  a  cockloft,  where  a  good-natured  Dutchman 
received  me,  and  took  me  to  the  Exchange,  and  the  wine- 
cellar,  and  left  me  at  the  Poste,  with  my  name  booked  for 
Oldenburg  the  same  afternoon.  The  mail  line  was  the 
property  of  the  Duke  of  Oldenburg;  and  a  very  good  one 
it  was,  for  we  went  off  in  fine  style  in  a  sort  of  drosky 
drawn  by  two  Dutch  ponies. 


Oldenburg. 

npiHERE  is  a  dreamy  kind  of  pleasure  in  scudding  so 
-*-  fast,  over  so  smooth  and  pretty  roads  as  lay  between 
us  that  afternoon,  and  the  capital  of  the  Duchy  of  Olden- 
burg. There  was  a  kindly-looking  old  man  sat  opposite 
to  me  in  the  drosky,  who  would  have  talked  with  me 
more — for  we  mustered  a  little  of  common  language — but 
for  a  gabbling  Danois,  who  engrossed  nearly  the  whole 
of  his  time.  I  met  him  again  in  the  park  of  the  Duke, 
and  arm  in  arm  the  vielliard  and  I  rambled  over  it 
together,  under  the  copper-leaved  beech-trees,  and  by 
the  stripes  of  water  that  lay  in  the  lawn. 

Sometimes  we  would  meet  a  family  of  the  town  at 
their  evening  stroll — the  youngsters  trooping  it  over  the 
greensward,  and  the  half-grown  girls  shading  their  faces 
with  the  roses,  that  grow  so  profusely  in  the  park.  Then 
would  come  along,  laughing,  a  company  of  older  ones.    I 


The    Drinking-Hor  n.  295 

would  button  up  my  coat,  and  put  on  my  cleanest  glove, 
and  make  the  best  appearance  I  could  with  my  traveling 
trim;  but  for  all  that,  there  were  a  great  many  wicked 
glances  thrown  at  me ;  and  half  a  dozen  times,  I  vowed  I 
would  be  looking  better  on  my  next  visit  to  Oldenburg. 
It  would  e11  be  veiy  well  on  the  great  routes  of  travel, 
where  every  third  man  you  meet  is  a  voyageur  like  your- 
self, and  where  a  sort  of  traveling  etiquette  prevails.  Not 
so  in  the  out  of  the  way,  quiet,  and  home-like  towns, 
where  a  new  comer  is  at  once  an  object  of  attention,  and 
put  down  in  the  tattle-books  of  the  gossips. 

It  was  in  Oldenburg  I  saw  first  the  Dutch  taste  for 
flowers.  Every  house  had  its  parterre  of  roses  and 
tulips ;  and  the  good  old  custom  of  taking  tea  in  the  midst 
of  them,  before  the  door,  was  zealously  maintained.  And 
I  could  see  the  old  ladies  lifting  their  teapots,  and  the 
girls  smirking  behind  their  saucers,  as  I  walked  before 
the  houses,  still  chatting  with  the  old  gentleman  of  the 
drosky. 


The    Drinking-Horn. 

TTTTE  led  me  into  the  great  court-yard  of  the  Ducal  Pal- 
!'P«"  ace.  The  doors  were  shut — only  a  sentinel  or  two 
were  pacing  about. 

I  was  sorry  not  to  go  within  the  Palace,  for  my  com- 
panion told  me  something  of  an  old  drinking-horn,  guard- 


24*6  Fresh   Gleanings. 

ed  as  a  precious  relic  by  the  Oldenburg  family,  which 
made  me  very  curious  to  see  it.  He  told  me  it  was  a 
stag's  horn,  curiously  carved  over,  in  an  antique  style, 
with  dragons  and  fairies, — that  it  was  tipped  at  the  bot- 
tom with  pearl,  and  lined  throughout  with  pure  gold. 

It  seems  that  many  centuries  ago,  when  things  were 
different  from  what  they  are  now,  and  men  were  tempted 
by  Satan  in  the  shape  of  goblins  and  elfs,  as  they  are 
tempted  now  by  him  in  the  shape  of  men  and  women — 
there  lived  a  pious  and  brave  Baron  of  Oldenburg — 
Hilderick  by  name,  who  was  kind  to  his  vassals,  and  said 
his  prayers,  in  spite  of  all  the  Devil  could  do. 

Hilderick  had  gone  out  one  day  to  hunt,  and  excited 
by  the  chase,  had  rode  away  from  his  companions,  and 
lost  himself  in  the  forest.  For  hours  he  rode  on,  not 
knowing  which  way  he  was  going.  At  length,  when  he 
was  nearly  exhausted  by  fatigue  and  thirst,  he  espied 
through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  a  tall  hill. 

He  spurred  his  jaded  horse  toward  the  eminence,  think- 
ing that  possibly  he  might  see  from  the  top,  either  the 
turrets  of  his  castle,  or  some  sign  of  his  comrades. 

But  he  was  doomed  to  be  disappointed ;  he  could  see 
from  the  top  neither  turret  nor  horseman  ; — and  heard  only 
the  wind  rushing  through  the  openings  of  the  forest,  01 
the  howl  of  a  bear  from  some  dark  thicket. 

The  Baron  was  near  falling  from  his  horse,  exhausted 
by  hard  riding,  and  a  raging  thirst,  when  suddenly  there 
appeared  behind  him — as  if  she  had  come  up  the  othei 
side  of  the  mountain — a  beautiful  damsel,  in  white,  bear 


The   Drinking-Horn.  297 

ing  a  drinking-horn  full  of  sparkling  liquor.  Softly  she 
approached  the  Baron,  and  put  the  horn  in  his  hand. 
Hilderick  murmuied  a  word  of  thanks — his  fatigue  would 
allow  him  to  do  no  more, — and  put  the  rim  of  the  horn  to 
his  lips, — when  suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had 
been  warned  against  a  strange  lady,  who  should  come  to 
him  with  a  goblet  of  wine. 

His  thirst  was  raging,  but  he  implored  the  aid  of  his 
patron  saint,  and  dashed  the  liquor  behind  him.  His 
horse  reared  and  plunged,  for  where  so  much  as  a  drop 
had  touched  his  flank,  the  skin  was  raw  and  bloody. 

The  eyes  of  the  strange  lady  shot  out  glances  of  fire. 
She  demanded  the  horn  of  the  Baron,  but  he  refused  to 
give  it  her. 

Hilderick's  eyes  started  in  fright,  and  his  frame  shook, 
for  the  eyes  of  the  woman  changed  to  the  red  eyes  of  a 
dragon,  and  her  hair  grew  coarse  and  stiff,  and  her  fair 
bosom  became  coated  with  ugly  scales,  and  her  arms  be- 
came sharp  claws. 

The  horse  of  Hilderick  bounded  down  the  mountain — 
the  Baron  clutching  his  trophy,  and  hearing  with  dread, 
the  bushes  crackling  behind  him  under  the  tread  of  the 
great  she-dragon. 

On  and  on — straight  as  an  arrow,  flew  the  horse  of  Hil- 
derick— his  flanks  all  bloody — his  nostrils  panting  with 
rage.  And  on  as  fast,  through  the  terrible  forest,  came 
the  roaring  paces  of  the  maddened  dragon. 

The  Baron  uttered  his  prayers,  and  saw  at  length,  that 
he  was  approaching  the  bounds  of  his  kingdom ;  but  his 


29S  Fresh   Gleanings. 

foe  was  near  upon  him,  and  he  felt  }*er  hot  breath  like  the 
blasts  of  a  furnace. 

At  length  the  horse  of  Hilderick  fell  exhausted.  The 
knight  uttered  a  prayer,  and  looking  around,  saw  that  he 
was  within  the  bounds  of  his  own  kingdom,  and  that  the 
dragon  had  vanished. 

When  the  horse  of  Hilderick  had  recovered  himself, 
the  Baron  rode  home  to  his  castle,  and  ordered  prayers 
to  be  said  for  his  deliverance.  His  people  rejoiced  as 
much  as  he,  for  he  was  kind  to  his  vassals.  It  was,  with- 
out doubt,  they  said,  an  attempt  on  the  part  of  Satan,  to 
buy  the  allegiance  of  the  Baron.  And  it  was  a  boast 
with  them  in  years  after  : — the  Good  Knight  Hilderick, 
who,  though  dying  with  thirst,  would  not  take  drink  from 
the  Evil  One. 

Whether  some  of  his  successors  have  not  sold  them- 
selves to  the  Devil,  on  much  cheaper  terms,  is  more  than 
I  know. 

The  proof  of  the  stoiy  is ; — that  there  is  still  a  race  of 
horses  in  the  neighborhood,  with  white  spots  on  their 
flank — called  the  breed  of  the  Dragon.  And  what  is  still 
stronger — indeed  irrefragable,  is  the  fact  that  the  drink- 
ing-horn is  still  hanging  in  an  old  cabinet  of  the  Palace 
of  Oldenburg. 

At  least,  my  companion  told  me  it  was;  and  I 

find  the  same  thing  attested  by  Messieurs  Grimm* — from 

*  Les  viellees  Allemandes :  Traduction  par  L'Heritier  (de  L'Ain) 
Tmp.  Mme  Huzard.    Paris. 


A   Short   Sermon.  299 

whom,  indeed,  I  suspect  the  vielliard  had  taken  the  prom- 
inent ideas  of  the  story  :  though  he  amplified  it  to  excess ; 
for,  whereas  in  Grimm,  it  is  embraced  in  two  short  para- 
graphs, the  old  gentleman  had  occupied  a  full  half  hour 
in  the  recital. 


A   Short   Sermon. 

"WTTTHEN  we  had  rambled  back  to  his  inn,  we  had 
™  "    grown  quite  familiar,  and  wholly  forgot,  until  we 
told  each  other  of  it,  that  our  paths  diverged  on  the  mor- 
row, forever. 

It  is  sad,  and  it  is  pleasant,  this  experience  of  solitary 
wayside  travel !  An  hour — you  interchange  thought  with 
a  man  of  different  language,  different  religion,  and  differ- 
ent ideas  of  what  is  moral.  You  unite  with  him  only  on 
a  common  social  ground — you  grow  into  his  thoughts, — 
you  look  out  through  his  eyes.  Your  sympathies  chime 
together  on  some  common  subject ;  your  feelings  toward 
him  grow  warm, — your  familiarity  increases ;  you  take 
him,  in  words,  to  your  home;  you  extend  the  sympa- 
thies, that  grow  and  kindle  into  a  flame  at  the  recollec- 
tion, around  the  new  heart,  that  seems  to  pulsate  with 
yours;  and  he  takes  you  to  7iis  home,  and  your  affec- 
tions, warmed,  take  the  impulse  and  bound  under  it ;  and 
you  are  united  to  him  by  ties  pure  as  blood  ties ;  and  yet, 
when  you  shake  his  hand,  as  I  shook  the  hand  of  that  old 


300  Fresh    Gleanings. 

gentleman  that  evening,  on  the  banks  of  the  little  stream 
that  runs  into  the  Weser,  an  uncontrollable  sadness  comes 
over  you, — for  it  is  the  last  shaking  of  hands  that  you,  or 
he  will  know. 

His  sentiments  may  be  as  different  from  yours  on  some 
subjects,  that  have  a  shape  formed  by  education,  as  light 
from  darkness.  What  on  earth  matters  it,  if  he  be  Jew, 
or  Catholic,  or  German  1  There  will  be  words,  and  warm 
words,  as  common  to  him  as  to  you ;  and  he  who  shrinks 
them  into  little  words,  that  have  meaning  so  limited,  they 
can  not  touch  feelings,  except  they  are  biased  just  as  his 
on  every  point,  does  not  know  how  to  use  words  well,  or 
as  the  God  of  nature  meant  they  should  be  used. 

In  familiar  life,  and  in  a  world  we  know,  we  shape 
words  to  characters :  insensibly  we  make  an  estimate  of 
what  a  man's  opinions  may  be,  and  we  shape  conduct  to 
the  opinions — either  to  combat  them  or  to  humor  them, 
but  all  the  while  with  them  in  view.  In  a  strange  world, 
of  creeds  so  variant  and  curious,  as  scatter  over  the  sur- 
face of  the  Continent,  one  meets  man  as  a  man,  and  a 
man  only  ;  and  he  tempers  thought  and  intercourse  upon 
a  grand  range — a  range  limited  only  by  human  sympa- 
thies ;  and  he  does  not  think  to  jar  on  this  opinion  or  that, 
but  embraces  opinions  that  must  belong  to  every  human 
feeling  soul.  The  mind  and  the  heart  expand  on  this 
great  ground.  Sensibilities  lake  quicker  impulse  where 
there  are  no  codes  to  regulate  them  :  affections  break  out 
free  and  evenly  divided :  prejudice  is  bewildered,  for  the 
landmarks  are  lost. 


The    Drosky    and   Dutchman.       301 

What  glorious  openness  and  evenness  of  feeling  grow 
out  of  such  experience  !  How  one  towers  up,  and  towers 
up,  until  he  feels  that  he  can  look  down  on  the  wranglers 
about  differences  of  opinion — there  they  squabble  away, 
the  poor  creatures !  about  thinking  unlike,  and  can  never 
agree  to  do  it :  they  are  defining  charity,  and  can  not  lift 
themselves  to  the  nobleness  of  its  practice. 

I  believe,  on  my  honor,  I  should  have  preached  a  very 
good  sort  of  a  sermon  that  night  (if  I  have  not  done  so  al- 
ready), with  no  better  text  than  the  cheerful  talk  the  gray- 
haired  man  of  Bremen  and  I  had  together,  along  the 
pretty  paths  of  the  park  of  Oldenburg.  I  could  not  do 
justice  to  my  chops  and  wine  at  the  H6tel  de  Russie :  so 
I  went  off  early  to  bed. 


The   Drosky   and   Dutchman. 

|"T  was  a  good  drosky,  and  good  horses  put  to  it,  that 
rPi  was  standing  at  the  door  of  the  bureau  de  poste  next 
morning,  to  take  me  on  my  way  to  Amsterdam.  The 
back  seats  and  front  seats  were  both  empty,  and  I  dread- 
ed near  a  two  days'  ride  alone.  But  just  as  I  got  in, 
there  came  up  a  young  man  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  and 
took  a  place  beside  me.  Company  was  agreeable ;  but 
two  days  together,  with  no  common  language  to  talk  in, 
would  be  worse  than  no  company  at  all. 

Presently  it  came — just  as  I  thought, — infernal  Dutch. 


302  Fresh    G  l  e  a  x  i  x  g  s. 

I  shook  my  head  in  a  sour  way  :  and  so,  thought  I,  he 
takes  me  for  a  Dutchman ;  and  partly  nettled  with  this 
notion,  and  partly  annoyed  at  not  being  able  to  talk,  I 
muttered — le  (liable  ! 

The  exclamation  was  out  of  all  place,  for  my  com- 
panion spoke  French  better  than  I.  He  had  French 
communicativeness,  too,  and  in  a  half  hour  we  were  old 
friends. 

He  was  the  oldest  of  nine  children  of  a  merchant  of 
Amsterdam.  Eight  years  he  had  sucked  the  ink  from  the 
quills  in  his  father's  counting-room.  But  two  years  back, 
there  had  come  under  his  father's  patronage  an  Italian 
skipper.  The  skipper  and  he  had  passed  many  a  quiet 
afternoon  together  over  the  tall  desks,  and  while  the  old 
Meinheer  was  puffing  at  his  meerschaum,  in  the  leather- 
bottomed  chair  of  the  inner  office,  the  young  Meinheer 
had  lolled  over  the  long  stools,  killing  flies  with  the  end 
of  his  ruler,  and  listening  to  the  skipper's  stories  of  those 
parts  of  the  world  which  lie  beyond  the  Zuyder  Zee. 
His  youthful  imagination  became  inflamed,  and  with  it, 
his  love  of  knowledge.  He  added  Italian  to  French,  and 
begged  his  father  to  let  him  change  his  position.  He  was 
tired  of  the  old  counting-room  down  by  the  Amstel,  and 
tired  of  looking  forever  into  the  dirty  Keizers  Gracht. 
The  children  at  home  were  good  children  and  quiet  chil- 
dren :  but  little  Frans,  and  Girard,  and  Jans  would  catch 
hold  of  his  coat-tails  when  he  came  in  from  the  office 
tired,  and  would  pull  his  hair  if  he  did  not  take  one  in 
his  lap,  and  ride  the  other  on  his  foot ; — all  which, — said 


The    Drosky    and   Dutchman.       303 

my   companion, — took   up   my  evenings ;  which   young 
men  like  you  and  I  want  to  themselves. 

I  gave  him  an  affirmative  nod,  and  he  went  on- — 

—  For  six  months  my  father  considered  the  subject. 
Meantime  little  Frans  was  growing  up  to  be  as  high  at 
the  desk  as  I.  The  skipper  became  more  eloquent  of 
other  lands ;  and  I  listened  and  grew  enamored.  At 
length  one  day — a  week  Monday — my  father  called  me 
in  the  office,  and  put  a  batch  of  letters  in  my  hand,  and 
counted  out  a  hundred  guilders,  and  told  me  I  might  go, 
and  see  what  could  be  done  in  Bremen. 

—  In  Bremen  1 — said  I. 

—  Bremen,  Monsieur. 

—  It  is  a  little  way, — said  I. 

—  Pardon,  Monsieur,  pardon,  it  is  a  long  way  from 
Amsterdam. 

—  I  am  come  farther  within  a  month — even  from  Vienna. 

—  Monsieur — Quel  grand  chemin  ! 

—  And  before  that,  from  Rome. 

—  Par  bleu  / 

—  And  from  Paris. 

—  del ! 

—  And  from  America. 

—  Mon  Dieu  ! — mon  Dieu  ! 

When  he  had  recovered  a  little  from  his  good-natured 
astonishment,  I  inquired  after  his  success.  It  could  not 
have  been  better :  the  second  day  in  the  strange  city  he 
had  secured  a  place,  he  had  lived  like  a  prince  at  the  inn, 
had    drunk    a   bottle   of  Hockheimer   a   dav,    and   was 


304  Fresh    Gleanings. 

now,  with  fifteen  guilders  left,  going  back  to  arrange  his 
final  departure  from  his  home  and  kindred. 

I  felt  interested  in  my  companion's  story,  as  showing 
the  simplicity  and  quietude  of  the  Dutch  character  ;  and  if 
the  reader  has  been  as  much  so,  he  will  care  nothing 
about  the  country  we  passed  over,  before  stopping  to 
dine. 

The  postillion  had  given  two  blasts  on  his  bugle;  I 
gulped  down  the  last  glass  of  wine, — seized  a  piece  of  the 
old  lady's  cheese  in  my  hand,  and  we  settled  the  cost 
between  us,  my  companion  and  I,  on  the  back  seat  of  the 
coach.  My  Dutch  friend  had  well  improved  his  one 
trip  over  the  road,  for  I  noticed  that  the  maid  of  the  inn 
at  Lingen  gave  him  a  familiar  nod,  and  a  very  encourag- 
ing look — leaving  me  to  the  guidance  of  a  middle-aged 
woman  in  boots,  who  entertained  a  half-score  of  fat, 
short  boys,  who  followed  us,  by  telling  them  that  the 
Meinheer  in  the  gray  hat  and  coat,  was  a  live  American  ; 
nor  did  I  get  rid  of  the  troop,  until  I  went  in  to  supper  at 
that  town  on  the  Ems. 

Here,  our  post  arrangements  underwent  a  change;  and 
we  were  reduced  to  choice  of  seats  in  a  wretched  old  dili- 
gence. It  was  dark  when  we  got  in  the  coach,  and 
I  could  not  make  out  what  sort  of  companions  we  had. 
At  eleven  and  a  half  we  were  fairly  jolted  asleep,  when 
there  was  a  stop  for  the  officers  of  the  Customs  of  Hol- 
land. All  escaped  except  an  old  fellow  who  was  dream- 
ing before  me,  and  who  could  give  no  satisfactory  account 
of  a  savory  package  in  his  lap. — He  looked  appealingly 


A    Dut  c  i!    1  x  x,  305 

with  his  eyes  half  open,  at  the  officer  with  the  lantern  ; 
but  the  officer  with  the  lantern  was  unfortunately  wide 
awake,  and  our  poor  fellow-traveler  was  at  length  obliged 
to  confess  to — sausages  :  they  took  him  and  his  meats  out 
of  the  coach,  and  for  a  half  hour  we  waited  in  the  cold, 
before  the  poor  soul  came  back,  muttering  over  hia 
prostrate  hopes. 


A   Dutch   Inn. 

A  LITTLE  past  sunrise,  I  took  my  first  cup  of  coffee 
in  a  true  Dutch  inn.  The  floor  was  as  clean  as  the 
white  deal  table,  but  made  of  polished  tiles;  the  huge 
chimney  was  adorned  with  the  same.  The  walls  were 
fresh  painted  and  washed ;  the  dishes  were  set  on  edge 
upon  the  shelves,  and  the  copper  saucepans  hung  :ound, 
as  redly  bright  as  in  Bassano's  pictures.  The  clock 
stood  in  the  corner ;  the  slate  and  the  pencil  were  hang- 
ing beside  the  casement ;  a  family  portrait  hung  over  one 
end  of  the  mantel,  and  the  hour-glass,  and  the  treasures 
were  ranged  below.  A  black  and  white  cat  was  curled 
up  and  dozing  in  a  straight-backed  chair ;  and  a  weazen- 
faced  landlady  was  gliding  about  in  a  stiff  white  cap. 


306  Fresh    Gleanings. 


D  e  v  e  n  t  E  R. 

"¥^7"HEN  we  reached  Deventer,  it  was  the  middle  of 
the  morning  of  a  market  day;  and  the  short- 
gowned  women  thronging  over  the  great  square,  under 
the  shadow  of  the  cathedral,  seemed  just  come  out  of  the 
studios  of  the  old  Dutch  painters.  We  ate  some  of  the 
eggs  that  were  in  pyramids  among  them,  at  the  inn  of  the 
Crown.  Rich  enough  is  the  primitiveness  of  all  this 
region.  Even  the  rude  stares  that  met  me  and  my  South- 
ern garb  in  the  streets,  were  more  pleasant  than  annoy- 
ing. Strangers  rarely  come  into  the  region,  merely  to 
look  about  them;  and  so  little  is  there  even  of  local 
travel,  that  the  small  silver  coin  I  had  taken  the  evening 
before,  was  looked  doubtfully  upon  by  the  ginger-bread 
dealers  of  Deventer.  In  every  other  portion  of  Europe, 
I  had  been  harassed  by  falling  in  with  French  and  En- 
glish, in  every  coach  and  at  every  inn.  Here  I  was  free 
from  all  but  natives;  and  not  a  single  post  carriage  had 
I  fallen  in  with,  over  all  the  country  from  Bremen  to 
Deventer.  There  was  a  spice  of  old  habits  in  every 
action.  There  was  a  seeming  of  being  translated  a  cen- 
tury or  two  back  in  life ;  and  neither  in  coaches,  nor 
horses,  nor  taverns,  nor  hostesses,  was  there  any  thing  to 
break  the  seeming.  The  eggs  at  the  inn  were  served  in 
old  style  ;  the  teapot,  low  and  sprawling,  was  puffing  out 


D  E  V  B  N  T  E  R.  307 

of  a  long,  crooked  nose  by  the  fire,  in  good  old  fashion  ; 
the  maid  wore  a  queer  old  cap  and  stomacher,  and  she 
and  the  cook  peeped  through  the  half-opened  door,  and 
giggled  at  the  strange  language  we  were  talking. 

The  daughters  of  the  market-women,  were  many  of 
them  as  fresh  and  rosy  as  their  red  cabbages ;  and  there 
were  daughters  of  gentlewomen,  looking  as  innocent  as 
the  morning  air,  out  of  the  open  casements : — in  short,  I 
was  half  sorry  I  had  booked  for  Arnheim,  and  what  was 
worse,  that  the  coach  was  at  the  door  of  the  Crown. 

Many  a  time  before  and  since,  my  heart  has  rebelled 
against  being  packed  off  from  bright  sunny  towns,  whose 
very  air  one  seems  to  love, — and  still  more  the  pleasant 
faces  that  look  after  you.  What  large  spots  in  memory, 
bright,  kind-looking  faces  cover  over !  But  they  pass  out 
of  sight,  and  only  come  back,  a  long  way  off,  in  dreams — 
blessed  be  Heaven  for  that !  And  when  one  wakes  from 
them  into  the  vividness  of  present  interests,  he  seems  to 
have  the  benefit  of  two  worlds  at  once — blessed  be  Heaven 
for  that,  too ! 

I  should  have  grown  very  sulky  in  the  coach,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  exceedingly  beautiful  scenery  we  were 
going  through.  The  fields  were  as  green  as  English 
fields,  and  the  hedges  as  trim  and  blooming  as  English 
hedges.  The  cottages  were  buried  in  flowers  and  vines, 
and  an  avenue  embowered  us  all  the  way.  A  village  we 
passed  through,  was  the  loveliest  gem  of  a  village,  that 
could  bless  an  old  or  a  young  lady's  eyes  in  Europe. 
The  road  was  as  even  and  hard  as  a  table,  and  winding. 


398  Fresh   Gleaning?, 

Hedges  were  each  side  of  it,  and  palings  here  and  there 
as  neatly  painted  as  the  interiors  at  home ;  and  over 
them,  amid  a  wilderness  of  roses  and  jessamines,  the 
white  faces  of  pleasant-looking  Dutch  cottages  : — the  road 
throughout  the  village  as  tidy  as  if  it  had  been  swept, 
and  the  trees  so  luxuriant,  that  they  bent  over  to  the 
coach-top.  Here,  again,  I  would  have  wished  to  stop — 
to  stop,  by  all  that  is  charming  in  bright  eyes — for  half  a 
lifetime. 

An  old  Dutch  lady,  a  worthy  burgomaster's  wife  of 
Amheim,  would  not  leave  off  pointing  to  me  the  beauties 
as  they  came  up,  with  her  fort  joli,  and  charmant ; — to  all 
of  which,  I  was  far  more  willing  in  accordance,  than  of  the 
two  thirds  of  the  coach  seat,  which  was  surely  never 
intended  for  such  sized  bodies,  as  that  of  the  burgomas- 
ter's wife.  I  was  sorry,  notwithstanding,  when  we  had 
finished  our  ride  in  the  clean  streets  of  Arnheim,  and 
set  oft',  in  a  hard  rain,  by  the  first  train  for  Amsterdam. 
All  the  way  down,  through  Naarden  and  Utrecht,  the 
rain  was  pouring  so  hard,  that  I  had  only  glimpses  of 
water  and  windmills.  I  bade  my  friend  of  the  office 
in  the  Amstel,  good-by,  and  though  he  promised  to  call  at 
my  inn,  I  never  saw  him  again. 


The   Oude   Doelen.  309 


The   Oude   Doelen. 

T  DID  not  much  like  the  little  back  room  on  the  first 
A  floor,  which  they  gave  me  at  the  Oude  Doelen,  for 
it  seemed  I  could  almost  put  the  end  of  my  umbrella  into 
the  canal ;  and  there  was  a  queer  craft  with  a  long  bow- 
sprit lying  close  by,  that  for  aught  I  knew,  with  a  change 
of  tide,  might  be  tangling  her  jib-boom  in  my  sheets.  I 
ventured  to  say  to  my  host,  that  the  room  might  be 
damp. 

—  Le  diable, — said  my  host ;  and  without  making  further 
reply  to  my  suggestion,  turned  round  and  spoke  very 
briskly  with  the  head-waiter.  What  he  said  I  do  not 
know ;  but  when  he  had  finished,  the  waiter  clasped  his 
hands,  looked  very  intently  at  me,  and  exclaimed,  with 
the  utmost  fervor, — Mon  Dieu  ! 

I  saw  I  had  committed,  however  innocently,  some  very 
grave  mistake;  so  I  thought  to  recommend  myself  to 
their  charities,  by  taking  the  room  at  once,  and  saying  no 
more  about  the  dampness. 

When  I  woke  up,  the  sun  was  reflected  off  the  water 
in  the  canal  into  my  eyes.  From  the  time  I  had  left 
Florence,  four  months  before,  I  had  not  received  a  letter 
from  home,  and  my  first  object  was  to  seek  out  a  Mr. 
Van  Bercheem,  to  whom  I  was  duly  accredited.  God- 
sends, in  verity,  are  letters  from  home,  to  one  wandering 


310  Fresh    Gleanings. 

alone ;  and  never  did  a  wine  lover  break  the  green  seal 
off  the  Hermitage,  as  eagerly  as  I  broke  open  the  broad 
red  wax,  and  lay  back  in  the  heavy,  Dutch  chair,  and 
read,  and  thought,  and  dreamed — dreamed  that  Europe 
was  gone — utterly  vanished ;  and  a  country  where  the 
rocks  are  rough,  and  the  hills  high,  and  the  brooks  all 
brawlers,  come  suddenly  around  me, — where  1  walked 
between  homely  fences,  but  under  glorious  old  trees,  and 
opened  gateways  that  creaked ;  and  trod  pathways  that 
were  not  shaven,  but  tangled  and  wild ;  and  said  to  my 
dog,  as  he  leaped  in  his  crazy  joy  half  to  my  head — Good 
fellow,  Carlo ! — and  took  this  little  hand,  and  kissed  that 

other  soft  cheek heigho  !  dreaming  surely  ;  and  I  all 

the  while  in  the  little  back  parlor  of  the  Oude  Doelen  at 
Amsterdam  ! 


A   Dutch   Merchant. 

A  ROSY  young  woman  came  out  into  the  shop  that  I 
-*--*-  entered  with  the  valet,  upon  one  of  the  dirty  canals, 
and  led  me  into  a  back  hall,  and  up  a  dark  stairway,  and 
rapped  at  a  door,  and  Mr.  Van  Bercheem  appeared.  He 
was  a  spare,  thin-faced  man  of  forty — a  bachelor, — wed- 
ded to  business.  At  first,  he  saw  in  me  a  new  con- 
nection in  trade ;  it  was  hard  to  disappoint  him,  and  I 
half  encouraged  the  idea ;  but  my  present  travel,  I  as- 
sured him,  was  wholly  for  observation. 


A    Dutch    Merchant.  311 

—  Ah,  he  had  tried  it,  but  it  would  not  do.  He  was 
lost, — withering  up  soul  and  body,  when  he  was  away 
from  his  counting-room.  He  had  tried  the  country, — he 
had  tried  society  for  a  change,  but  he  could  find  no  peace 
of  mind  away  from  his  books. 

He  spoke  of  the  great  names  upon  'Change, — the  Van 
Diepens,  the  Van  Huyems,  the  De  Heems ;  and  I  fan- 
cied there  had  been  hours,  when  he  had  listened  to  him- 
self, adding  to  the  roll, — Van  Bercheem. 

The  valet  put  his  head  in  at  the  door,  to  ask  if  I 
wished  him  longer;  I  dismissed  him,  and  the  merchant 
thanked  me. 

—  These  fellows  are  devils,  Monsieur ;  he  has  been 
keeping  his  place  there  at  the  door,  to  know  what 
business  you  and  I  can  have  together,  and  he  will 
tattle  it  in  the  town  ;  and  there  are  men  who  disgrace 
the  profession  of  a  merchant,  who  will  pay  such  dogs ; 
— and  he  lowered  his  voice,  and  stepped  lightly  to  the 
door,  and  opened  it  again,  but  I  was  glad  the  valet  had 
gone. 

He  asked  me  in  with  him  to  breakfast ;  it  was  only 
across  the  back  hall,  in  a  little  parlor,  heavily  curtained,  and 
clean  as  Dutch  parlors  are  always.  The  breakfast  was 
served, — I  knew  not  by  whom — perhaps  the  rosy  wom- 
an in  the  shop  below.  A  cat  that  walked  in,  and  lay 
down  on  the  rug,  was  the  only  creature  I  saw,  save 
my  friend,  the  merchant.  I  tried  to  lead  him  to  talk 
of  the  wonders,  and  of  the  society  of  Amsterdam ; 
but  Jiis  mind   worked   back   insensibly  to  'Change   and 


312  Fresh   Gleanings. 

trade.  It  was  a  fearful  enthusiasm.  I  thought  of 
Horace's  lines : — 

Quisquis 

Ambitione  maid,  aut  argenti  pallet  amore, 

Aut  alio  mentis  morbo  calet, — 

Burning,  surely !  He  finished  his  breakfast  and  went 
back  with  me  to  the  counting-room.  He  gave  me  a  list 
of  his  correspondences ; — he  put  in  my  hands  a  great 
pacquet  of  cards  o£  houses  from  Smyrna  to  Calcutta,  and 
of  each  he  gave  me  a  brief  history,  with  the  never-failing 
close,  that  each  was  safe  and  honorable.  He  pressed 
upon  me  thirty-five  cards  of  the  house  of  Van  Bercheem ; 
— be  wished  me  success; — he  hoped  I  would  not  be 
forgetful  of  him,  and  sent  a  little  Dutch  boy  in  the  office 
to  show  me  the  Palace.  He  went  back  pale  to  his 
books.     I  shall  never  forget  him. 


Amsterdam. 

TN  an  hour,  with  the  Dutch  boy,  I  was  on  the  top  of 
-*-  the  tower  of  the  Palace,  The  view  that  lay  under  my 
eye  that  July  day,  and  one  not  wholly  dissimilar,  seen 
three  months  before,  from  the  tower  of  San  Marco  at 
Venice,  are  the  most  strange  that  met  my  eye  in 
Europe. 

Here,  as  at  Venice,  there  was  a  world  of  water,  and 
the  land  lay  flat,  and  the  waves  played  up  to  the  edges 


Amsterdam.  313 

as  if  they  would  cover  it  over.  At  Venice,  the  waters 
were  bright,  and  green,  and  moving.  At  Amsterdam,  they 
lay  still  and  black  in  the  city,  and  only  where  the  wind 
ruffled  them  in  the  distance,  did  they  show  a  sparkle  of 
white.  The  houses  too,  seemed  tottering  on  their 
uneasy  foundations,  as  the  palaces  of  Venice,  and  the 
tower  of  the  Greek  Church  had  seemed  to  sway. 

But  the  greatest  difference  between  the  two,  was  in  the 
stir  of  life.  Beneath  me,  in  the  Dutch  Capital,  was  the 
Palace  Square  and  the  Exchange,  thronging  with 
thousands,  and  cars  and  omnibusses  rattling  among  them. 
Along  the  broad  canals,  the  boatmen  were  tugging  their 
clumsy  craft,  piled  high  with  the  merchandise  of  every 
land.  Every  avenue  was  crowded, — every  quay  cum- 
bered with  bales,  and  you  could  trace  the  boats  along  the 
canals  bearing  off  in  every  direction, — even  India  ships 
were  gliding  along  upon  artificial  water  above  the  mead- 
ows where  men  were  reaping;  and  the  broad,  high 
dykes,  stretching  like  sinews  between  land  and  water, 
were  studded  thick  with  mills,  turning  unceasingly  their 
broad  arms,  and  multiplying  in  the  distance  to  mere 
revolving  specks  upon  the  horizon. 

Venice  seemed  asleep.  The  waves,  indeed,  broke 
with  a  light  murmur  against  the  palace  of  the  Doge,  and 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower ;  but  the  boats  lay  rocking  lazily 
on  the  surface  of  the  water,  or  the  graceful  gondolas 
glided  noiselessly.  The  Greek  sailors  slept  on  the  decks 
of  their  quaint  feluccas; — no  roll  of  cart,  or  horses'  heavy 
tread,  echoed  over  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco ; — a  single 

O 


314  Fresh    Gleanings. 

man-of-war  lay  with  her  awning  spread  at  the  foot  of  tho 
Grand  Canal.  There  was  an  occasional  foot-fall  on  the 
pavement  below  us ; — there  was  the  dash  of  the  green 
sea-water  over  the  marble  steps ; — there  was  the  rustling 
of  the  pigeons'  wings,  as  they  swooped  in  easy  circles 
around  us,  and  then  bore  down  to  their  resting-places 
among  the  golden  turrets  of  St.  Mark: — every  thing 
beside  was  quiet ! 

The  little  Dutch  boy  and  I  went  down  the  steps 
together.  I  thanked  him,  and  asked  him  my  way  into 
the  Jews'  quarter  of  the  town.  He  would  not  permit 
me  to  go  alone.  He  had  learned  French  at  his  school, 
where,  he  said,  all  the  boys  of  merchants  spoke  it  only ; 
and  a  great  many  intelligent  inquiries  he  made  of  me, 
about  that  part  of  the  world  which  could  not  be  seen 
from  the  top  of  the  palace  tower; — for  further,  poor  soul, 
he  had  never  been.  The  tribe  of  Israel  can  not  be  clean 
even  in  Dutch-land ;  and  though  their  street  was  broad, 
and  the  houses  rich,  there  was  more  filth  in  it,  than  in  all 
the  rest  of  Amsterdam  together.  There  they  pile  old 
clothes,  and  they  polish  diamonds  by  the  thousand. 

Walking  along  under  the  trees  upon  the  quays  beside 
the  canals,  one  sees  in  little,  square  mirrors,  that  seem  to 
be  set  outside  the  windows  of  the  houses  for  the  very 
purpose,  the  faces  of  the  prettiest  of  the  Dutch  girls. 
Old  women,  fat  and  spectacled,  are  not  so  busy  with 
their  knitting  but  they  can  look  into  them  at  times,  and 
see  all  down  the  street,  without  ever  being  observed.  It 
is   one    of  the    old    Dutch    customs,    and    while    Dutch 


Amsterdam.  315 

women  are  gossips,  or  Dutch  girls  are  pretty,  it  will 
probably  never  go  by.  In  Rotterdam,  at  Leyden,  at 
Utrecht,  and  the  Hague,  these  same  slanting  mirrors  will 
stare  you  in  the  face. 

Nowhere  are  girls'  faces  prettier  than  in  Holland; 
complexions  pearly  white,  with  just  enough  of  red  in 
*hem  to  give  a  healthy  bloom,  and  their  hands  are  as  fair, 
soft  and  tapering,  as  their  eyes  are  full  of  mirth,  witchery, 
and  fire. 

1  went  through  the  street  of  the  merchant  princes  of 
Amsterdam.  A  broad  canal  sweeps  through  the  centre, 
full  of  every  sort  of  craft,  and  the  dairy- women  land  their 
milk  from  their  barges,  on  the  quay  in  front  of  the 
proudest  doors.  The  houses  and  half  the  canal  are 
shaded  with  deep-leaved  lindens,  and  the  carnages  rattle 
under  them,  with  the  tall  houses  one  side,  and  the  waters 
the  other. 

My  boy  guide  left  me  at  the  steps  of  the  Royal 
Gallery.  There  is  in  it  a  picture  of  twenty -five  of  the 
old  City  Guard,  with  faces  so  beer-loving  and  real,  that 
one  sidles  up  to  it,  with  his  hat  hanging  low,  as  if  he 
were  afraid  to  look  so  many  in  the  face  at  once.  And 
opposite,  are  some  noble  fellows  of  Rembrandt's  painting, 
going  out  to  shoot ;  they  jostle  along,  or  look  you  in  the 
face,  as  carelessly  as  if  they  cared  not  one  fig  for  you,  or 
the  Dutch  burgomaster's  family,  who  were  with  me  look- 
ing on,  that  morning  : — and  there  was  a  painted  Candle- 
light,  and    Bear-hunt how    a    tempest    of   memory 

scuds  over  them  all,  here  in  my  quiet  chamber,  that  I 


316  Fresh    Gleanings. 

can  no  more  control,  than  the  wind  that  is  blowing  the  last 
leaves  away ! 

Would  to  Heaven  I  were  gifted  with  some  Aladdin 
touch,  to  set  before  you — actual — only  so  many  quaint 
things  and  curious,  as  lie  together  in  the  old  Dutch 
Capital, — churches,  and  pictures,  and  quays,  and  dykes, 
and  spreading  water, — sluggish  and  dead  within,  but 
raging  like  a  horse  that  is  goaded  without ! 

Like  a  toad  the  city  sits,  squat  upon  the  marshes ;  and 
her  people  push  out  the  waters,  and  pile  up  the  earth 
against  them,  and  sit  down  quietly  to  smoke  *  Ships 
come  home  from  India  and  ride  at  anchor  before  their 
doors, — coming  in  from  the  sea  through  paths  they  have 
opened  in  the  sand,  and  unlading  their  goods  on  quays 
that  quiver  on  the  bogs. 


*  Old  Andrew  Marvel  gives  them  this  bit  of  undeserved  satire  :— 

"  As  miners  who  have  found  the  ore, 
They,  with  mad  labor,  fished  the  land  to  shore, 
And  dived  as  desperately  for  each  piece 
Of  earth,  as  if't  had  been  of  ambergris; 
Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay, 
Less  than  what  building  swallows  bear  away ; 
Or  than  those  pills,  which  sordid  beetles  roll, 
Transfusing  into  tkem  their  dunghill  soul." 


B  U  I  K  S  L  U  T.  317 


BUIKSLUT. 

XT  AN  BERCHEEM  had  told  me  I  must  go  ^ver  to 
"  Buikslut  to  see  the  ship-canal ;  so,  one  sunny  noon, 
I  sailed  over,  and  fell  in  with  an  India  Captain,  who  was 
my  interpreter.  He  was  a  fat,  easy  talking  Dutchman ; 
hut  I  do  not  now  remember  the  half  that  he  said  about 
his  ship,  and  his  trip  down  the  China  Seas,  and  the  great 
canal  we  were  upon.  And  it  was  something  very  odd, 
and  struck  me  very  oddly,  that  he,  a  Dutchman  from 
Japan,  should  be  describing  to  me,  half  a  savage,  from  a 
little  nook  of  savage  country,  as  far  West  as  he  had  been 
East,  the  strange  things  that  were  coming  to  our  eyes 
through  the  cabin  windows  of  our  boat. 

One  side  we  looked  over  a  wild  waste,  with  rank 
herbage  here  and  there,  and  over  the  far-off  edge  of 
which,  appeared  some  of  the  windmills  of  Saardam ;  the 
other  side,  we  looked  down  upon  a  soft  meadow  where 
cattle  were  grazing,  while  water  that  floated  ships  was 
only  a  stone's  throw  away,  and  high  over  its  level. 

Sober -looking  cottages  were  here  and  there  along  the 
margin  of  the  canal,  with  sober-looking  burghers  smoking 
in  the  door-ways, — living  safely  enough  now ;  but  if  old 
Ocean  were  to  take  one  little  madcap  leap — and  he  has 
done  it  before — they  would  go  down  into  the  sea,  with 
their   herring.     Along  the   great  sea-dyke   at  Saardam, 


318  Fresh    Gleanings. 

one  may  see  the  Ocean  trying  to  leap  over ;  and  stand- 
ing low  down  upon  the  meadow,  one  hears  the  waves 
dashing  against  the  dyke  high  over  his  head,  upon  the 
other  side. 

From  Buikslut,  a  little  village  in  the  trees,  upon  the 
bank  of  the  grand  canal,  I  would  go  on  to  Broek ; — so 
the  Captain  gave  me  over  to  the  patronage  of  a  little 
skipper,  who  ran  his  boat  over  the  cross-country  canals. 


Broek. 

A  HALF-HOUR'S  sail  brought  us  in  sight  of  the 
~vV  church  spire,  rising  from  among  the  trees ;  and 
soon  appeared  the  chimney-tops,  and  finally  the  houses 
themselves,  of  the  little  town  of  Broek, — all  prettily 
reflected  in  a  clear  side-basin  of  the  canal. 

A  town  it  hardly  is ;  but  a  group  of  houses  among  rich 
trees,  where  eight  hundred  neighbors  live,  and  make 
things  so  neat,  that  strangers  come  a  thousand  miles  for  a 
look  at  the  wondrous  nicety.  Passing  by  the  basin  of 
smooth  water  that  reflected  so  prettily  the  church  and 
the  trees,  we  stopped  before  a  little  inn,  finely  shaded 
with  a  beech  trained  into  an  arbor  all  over  the  front.  A 
very,  very  pretty  blue-eyed  Dutch  girl  of  sixteen, 
received  me.  We  could  talk  nothing  together;  but 
there  happened  a  stupid  old  Meinheer  smoking  with  his 
wife  at  the  door,  through  whom  I  explained  my  wants. 


Broek.  319 

I  saw  by  the  twinkle  in  her  eye  that  she  comprehended. 
If  I  had  spoken  an  hour  it  could  not  have  been  better — 
my  dinner.  There  were  cutlets  white  as  the  driven 
snow,  and  wine  with  cobwebs  of  at  least  a  year's  date  on 
the  bottle,  and  the  nicest  of  Dutch  cheese,  and  strawber- 
ries, and  profusion  of  delicious  cream. 

The  blue-eyed  girl  had  stolen  out  to  put  on  another 
dress,  while  I  was  busy  with  the  first  cutlet ;  and  she 
wore  one  of  the  prettiest  little  handkerchiefs  imaginable 
on  her  shoulders,  and  she  glided  about  the  table  so  noise- 
lessly, so  charmingly,  and  arranged  the  dishes  so  neatly, 
and  put  so  heaping  a  plateful  of  strawberries  before  me, 
that — confound  me !  I  should  have  kept  by  the  dinner- 
table  until  night,  if  the  old  lady  had  not  put  her  head  in 
the  door,  to  say — there  was  a  person  without,  who  would 
guide  me  through  the  village. 

—  And  who  is  to  be  my  guide  ] — said  I,  as  well  as  I 
could  say  it. 

The  old  lady  pointed  opposite.  I  thought  she  misun- 
derstood me,  and  asked  her  again. 

She  pointed  the  same  way — it  was  a  stout  woman  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms  ! 

Was  there  ever  such  a  Cicerone  before?  I  looked 
incredulously  at  my  hostess;  she  looked  me  honestly 
enough  back,  and  set  her  arms  a-kimbo.  I  tried  to 
understand  her  to  point  to  her  blue-eyed  daughter, 
who  was  giggling  behind  her  shoulder — but  she  was 
nexorable. 
I  giew  frightened ;  the  woman  was  well  enough,  though 


320  Fresh    Gleanings. 

jogging  upon  forty.  But  the  baby — what  on  earth  should 
it  be  doing ;  suppose  she  were  to  put  it  in  my  arms  in 
some  retired  part  of  the  village'?  Only  fancy  me  six 
leagues  from  Amsterdam,  with  only  ten  guilders  in  my 
pocket,  and  a  fat  Dutch  baby  squalling  in  my  hands! 
But  the  woman — with  a  ripe,  red,  laughing  cheek,  had  a 
charitable  eye,  and  we  set  off  together. 

Not  a  bit,  though,  could  we  talk,  and  it  was — nichts, 
nichts,  however  I  put  the  questions.  Nature  designed 
eyes  to  talk  half  a  language,  and  the  good  soul  pleaded 
to  me  with  hers  for  the  beauty  of  her  village ; — words  of 
the  oldest  Cicerone  could  not  plead  stronger.  And  as  for 
the  village,  it  needed  none.  It  was  like  dreaming;  it  was 
like  fairy  land. 

Away,  over  a  little  bridge  we  turned  off  the  tow- 
path  of  the  canal,  and  directly  were  in  the  quiet  ways  of 
the  town.  They  were  all  paved  with  pebbles  or  bricks, 
arranged  in  every  quaint  variety  of  pattern ;  and  all  so 
clean,  that  I  could  find  no  place  to  knock  the  ashes  from 
my  pipe.  The  grass  that  grew  up  every  where  to  the  edge 
of  the  walks  was  short — not  the  prim  shortness  of  French 
shearing,  but  it  had  a  look  of  dwarfish  neatness,  as  if  cus- 
tom had  habituated  it  to  short  growth,  and  habit  become 
nature.  All  this  in  the  public  highway — not  five  yards 
wide,  but  under  so  strict  municipal  surveillance,  that  no 
horse  or  unclean  thing  was  allowed  to  trample  on  its 
neatness.  Once  a  little  donkey,  harnessed  to  a  miniature 
carriage,  passed  us,  in  which  was  a  Dutch  Miss,  to  whom 
my  lady  patroness  with  the  baby   bowed  low.     It  was 


B  B  O  E  K.  321 

evidently,  however,  a  privileged  lady,  and  the  donkey's 
feet  had  been  waxed. 

Little  yards  were  before  the  houses,  and  these  stocked 
with  all  sorts  of  flowers,  arranged  in  all  sorts  of  forms, 
and  so  clean — walks,  beds,  and  flowers — that  I  am  sure, 
a  passing  sparrow  could  not  have  trimmed  his  feathers 
in  the  plat,  without  bringing  out  a  toddling  Dutch 
wife  with  her  broom.  The  fences  were  absolutely  pol- 
ished with  paint;  and  the  hedges  were  clipped — not 
with  shears,  but  scissors.  Now  and  then  faces  would 
peep  out  of  the  windows,  but  in  general  the  curtains 
were  close  drawn.  We  saw  no  men,  but  one  or  two 
old  gardeners  and  a  half-a-dozen  painters.  Girls  we 
met,  who  would  pass  a  word  to  my  entertainer,  and  a 
glance  to  me,  and  a  low  courtesy,  and  would  chuckle 
the  baby  under  the  chin,  and  glance  again.  But  they 
were  not  better  dressed,  nor  prettier,  than  the  rest  of  the 
world,  besides  having  a  great  deal  shorter  waists  and 
larger  ancles.  They  looked  happy,  and  healthy,  and 
homelike. 

Little  boys  were  rolling  along  home  from  school — roll- 
ing, I  mean,  as  a  seaman  rolls — with  their  short  legs,  and 
fat  bodies,  and  phlegmatic  faces.  Two  of  them  were 
throwing  off  hook  and  bait  into  the  canal  from  under  the 
trees ;  and  good  fishers,  I  dare  say,  they  made,  for  never 
a  word  did  they  speak ;  and  I  almost  fancied  that  if  I 
had  stepped  quietly  up,  and  kicked  one  of  them  into 
the  water,  the  other  would  have  quietly  pulled  in  his 
line — taken  off  his  bait — put  all  in  his  pocket,  and  tod- 


322  Fresh    Gleanings. 

died  off  in  true  Dutch  style,  home,  to  tell  his  Dutch 
mamma. 

Round  pretty  angles  that  came  unlooked  for,  and  the 
shady  square  of  the  church — not  a  sound  any  where — we 
passed  along,  the  woman,  the  baby,  and  I.  Half  a  dozen 
times,  I  wanted  Cameron  with  me  to  enjoy  a  good  Scotch 
laugh  at  the  oddity  of  the  whole  thing;  for  there  was 
something  approaching  the  ludicrous  in  the  excess  of  clean- 
liness— to  say  nothing  about  my  stout  attendant,  whose 
cares  and  anxieties  were  most  amusingly  divided  between 
me  and  the  babe.  There  was  a  large  garden,  a  phthisicky 
old  gardener  took  me  over,  with  puppets  in  cottages, 
going  by  clock-work — an  old  woman  spinning,  dog  bark- 
ing, and  wooden  mermaids  playing  in  artificial  water; 
these  all  confirmed  the  idea  with  which  the  extravagant 
neatness  can  not  fail  to  impress  one,  that  the  whole  thing 
is  a  mockery,  and  in  no  sense  earnest. 

From  this,  we  wandered  away  in  a  new  quarter,  to  the 
tubs,  and  pans,  and  presses  of  the  dairy.  The  woman  in 
waiting  gave  a  suspicious  glance  at  my  feet  when  I 
entered  the  cow-stable ;  and  afterward,  when  she  favored 
me  with  a  look  into  her  home,  all  beset  with  high-polished 
cupboards  and  china,  my  steps  were  each  one  of  them 
regarded — though  my  boots  had  been  cleaned  two  hours 
before — as  if  I  had  been  treading  in  her  churn,  and 
not  upon  a  floor  of  stout  Norway  plank.  The  press  was 
adorned  with  brazen  weights,  and  bands  shining  like  gold. 
The  big  mastiff  who  turned  the  churn  was  sleeping  under 
the  table,  and  the  maid  showed  me  the  women  milking 


Sailing    Home.  323 

over  the  low  ditches  in  the  fields, — for  the  sun  was  getting 
near  to  the  far  away  flat  grounds  in  the  West. 

With  another  stroll  through  the  clean  streets  of  the  vil- 
lage, I  returned  to  my  little  inn,  where  I  sat  under  the 
braided  limbs  of  the  beech-tree  over  the  door.  There  was 
something  in  the  quiet  and  cleanliness  that  impressed  me 
like  a  picture,  or  a  curious  book.  It  did  not  seem  as  if 
healthy  flesh  and  blood,  with  all  its  passions  and  cares, 
could  make  a  part  of  such  a  way  of  living.  It  was  like 
reading  a  Utopia,  only  putting  household  economy  in 
place  of  the  politeia  of  Sir  Thomas  More.  I  am  sure 
that  some  of  the  dirty  people  along  the  Rhone,  and  in  the 
Vallais  Canton  of  Switzerland,  if  suddenly  translated  to 
the  grass  slopes  that  sink  into  the  water  at  Broek,  would 
imagine  it  some  new  creation. 

So  I  sat  there  musing  before  the  inn,  looking  out  over 
the  canal,  and  the  vast  plain  with  its  feeding  flocks,  and 
over  the  groups  of  cottages,  and  windmills,  and  far-off 
delicate  spires. 


Sailing    Home. 

II Y  and  by  a  faint  gush  of  a  distant  bugle-note  came 
*-*   up  over  the  evening  air.     It  was  from  the  boat  that 

was  to  cany  me  back  to  Amsterdam. 

It  came   again,  and   stronger,  and  rolled  tremulously 

over  the  meadows. — The  sheep  feeding  across  the  canal 


331  Fresh  Gleanings. 

lifted  their  heads,  and  listened. The  blue-eyed  girl  of 

the  inn  came  and  leaned  against  the  door-post,  and  listened 
too. The  landlady  put  her  sharp  eyes  out  of  the  half- 
opened  window,  and  looked  down  the  meadows.  The 
music  was  not  common  to  the  boaters  of  Broek.  Presently 
came  the  pattering  steps  of  the  horse  upon  the  foot- way, 
and  the  noise  of  the  rush  of  the  boat,  and  a  new  blast  of 
the  bugle.  The  sheep  opposite  lifted  their  heads,  and 
looked, — and  turned, — and  looked  again,  and  ran  away 
in  a  fright. 

The  blue-eyed  girl  was  yet  leaning  in  the  door- way, 
and  the  old  lady  was  looking  out  of  the  window  when  the 
boat  sailed  slowly  by,  and  left  the  inn  out  of  sight. 

I  was  standing  by  the  side  of  the  skipper,  musing  on 
what  I  had  seen :  one  does  not  get  there,  after  all,  a  true 
idea  of  the  Dutch  country  character,  since  the  village  is 

mostly  peopled  by  retired  citizens. This  other,  the  true 

Ostade  and  Teniers  light  upon  Dutch  land,  is  seen  farthei 
North  and  East,  and  in  glimpses  as  we  floated  along  the 
canal  in  the  evening  twilight,  home.  The  women  were 
seated  at  the  low  doors  knitting,  or  some  belated  ones 
were  squatting  like  frogs  on  the  edge  of  the  canal,  scrub- 
bing their  coppers,  till  they  shone  in  the  red  light  of  sun- 
set, brighter  than  the  moon.  Our  skipper  with  his  pipe 
sitting  to  his  tiller,  would  pass  a  sober  good  "  eben"  to 
every  passer  on  the  dyke,  and  to  every  old  Dutchman 
smoking  at  his  door; — and  every  passer  on  the  dyke,  and 
every  smoking  Dutchman  at  his  door,  would  solemnly  bow 
his  good  "eben"  back.     More  than  this  nothing  was  said. 


Sailing    Home.  3'<J3 

One  could  hear  the  rustling  of  the  reeds  along  the 
bank,  as  our  boat  pushed  a  light  wave  among  them.  Far 
in  advance — a  black  tall  figure — the  boy  was  moving  on 
his  horse,  but  he  did  not  break  the  silence  by  a  word. 
The  man  in  the  bow  was  quiet,  and  we  so  still  behind  that 
I  could  count  every  whiff  of  the  skipper's  pipe.  The 
people  were  coming  up  through  the  low  meadows  from 
their  work,  and  occasionally  some  old  woman  harnessed 
to  a  boat-load  of  hay  in  a  side  canal.  And  soon — sooner 
than  I  thought — the  spires  of  the  city  were  black  in  the 
sky  before  us. 

In  an  hour,  I  was  in  the  back  room  at  the  Oude 
Doelen,  in  bed.  What  on  earth  had  become  of  Cameron  ? 
Five  days,  and  he  had  not  come. 

1  thought  of  the   little   Prussian   vixen,  but  her 

father  had  a  lynx's  eye. 

1  thought  of  the  two  pretty  Russians ;  but  their 

mamma  sat  between  them. 

I  thought  of  the  Svedoise  bride,  but  her  husband 

was  a  Tartar.  And  so  thinking,  and  my  heart  warming 
with  pity,  toward  all  who  have  Tartars  for  husbands,  I 
fell  gently  asleep. 


326  F  r  c  s  n   Gleanings. 


Le   Frauensand. 

"I^TORTH  of  Amsterdam  lies  a  great  Peninsula,  cross- 
•*=■  ^  ed  by  the  Ship  Canal,  and  washed  on  its  Eastern 
shore  by  the  Zuyder  Zee,  and  on  the  West  by  the  Ger- 
man Ocean.  The  East  shore,  on  which  lie  Broek,  and 
Purmerende — famous  for  its  dairies — is  lich  and  green  ; 
but  the  West  shore  is  sandy  and  barren.  The  two  shores 
meet  in  the  desolate  promontory,  on  which  stands  the 
walled  town  of  Helder. 

Bearing  North  by  East  from  Helder  is  the  island  of 
the  Texel,  where  a  few  shepherds  dispute  occupancy 
with  greedy  sea-fowl.  From  the  Texel  stretches  a  line 
of  islands  across  the  opening  of  the  Zuyder  Zee — verging 
more  and  more  East,  until  they  almost  touch  the  shores 
of  Northern  Friesland. 

Various  ingenious  theories,  of  currents  and  inundations, 
— of  flux  and  reflux,  have  been  from  time  to  time  set 
forth  to  account  for  the  formation  of  these  islands,  in  their 
peculiar  position — all  which — though  I  dare  say,  very 
good  in  their  way,  I  shall  pass  over  to  the  hands  of  such 
men  as  Lyell  and  De  la  Beche ; — reserving  for  my  own 
notice,  a  theory  of  another  sort,  which  accounts  most  in- 
geniously, and  as  will  appear,  most  satisfactorily,  for  the 
formation  of  a  single  small  bank  of  earth,  belonging  to 
this  chain  of  Islands,  and  called  Le  Frauensand.     Tt  lies 


Lr.    Frauensand.  327 

only  a  little  way  from  the  shore,  directly  opposite  the  de- 
cayed village  of  Stavoren. 

The  theory  runs  thus  : — and  if  the  author  of  the  Ves- 
tiges of  Creation  can  contrive  a  better  one,  his  labor 
would  be — comparatively — well  bestowed  :  —  Stavoren 
had  once  its  shipping,  and  commerce,  and  of  course,  its 
port  of  entry.  Its  churches  were  few,  but  its  private 
mansions  were  splendid — even  to  the  ornamenting  of  the 
exterior  walls  with  precious  metals.  The  head-dresses  of 
the  women  were  fillets  of  solid  gold  as  broad  as  your  hand, 
and  their  ear-rings  drooped  with  pearls  and  rubies,  upon 
shoulders  as  white  as  ivory.  Their  spencers  were  of  the 
richest  silks  of  India,  and  their  skirts — longer  than  they 
wear  them  now — were  of  the  costliest  velvets  of  Genoa. 

Their  bracelets  were  cables  of  the  twisted  Venetian 
chain,  and  their  shoe-buckles  were  studded  with  Bohe- 
mian garnets. 

There  were  but  few  churches  in  the  city,  and  it  was 
said  of  the  people  of  Stavoren, — as  is  said  now-a-days  of 
many  rich  people, — that  they  were  very  worldly,  and  very 
wicked. 

It  was  certainly  true  of  one  of  the  inhabitants — a  very 
beautiful  woman,  whose  name  was  Bathilda — and  who, 
strange  to  say,  was  the  richest  of  all.  Her  wealth  (nor 
will  wealth  do  more  now)  could  not  secure  her  from  re- 
mark ;  and  terrible  stories  went  abroad  of  her  wickedness. 

For  instance : — there  were  amiable  and  weak-minded 
young  men  in  Stavoren — as  there  is  now  a  very  weak 
king  in  Bavaria — who  could  do  no  less  than  fall  desper- 


326  Fresh    Gleanings. 

ately  in  love  with  so  beautiful  a  woman  as  Bathikla; — 
and  it  was  said  that  such,  after  a  visit  or  two  to  her 
house,*  to  which  they  were  beguiled  by  fair  promises, 
suddenly  disappeared.  Too  often  now,  crime  and  wealth 
conspire  to  hide  shame.  The  misfortune  is,  that  the  Ba- 
thildas  of  our  day,  can  not  also  rid  the  community  of  the 
panders  to  their  lust. 

The  fame  of  Bathilda  spread  through  the  region  for 
twenty  leagues  around — which  is  an  almost  incredible 
distance  in  Dutch-land,  even  to  this  day. 

Her  lovers  grew  fewer,  when  they  saw  how  dearly 
others  had  paid  for  the  wooing ;  and  at  thirty,  though 
blooming  and  beautiful  as  she  was  wicked,  Bathilda  was 
still  unmarried. 

At  length — whether  tired  of  single  life — as  many  have 
been  tired  since,  or  contriving  some  new  scheme  of  wick- 
edness— she  caused  it  to  be  proclaimed  to  the  Inhabitants 
of  Stavoren,  that  she  would  give  her  hand,  and  the  half 
of  her  wealth,  to  whoever  should  bring,  within  two  years, 
the  richest  cargo  to  her  store-houses  at  Stavoren.  Her 
ships  were  on  every  ocean,  and  there  were  not  wanting 
men  among  the  avaricious  ones  of  the  city,  who  inspired 
by  her  money  or  her  beauty,  took  command  of  ships  to 
bring  back  the  coveted  freight. 

*  The  same  thing  is  related  in  an  old  Chronicle,  of  a  Countess  who 
inhabited  a  chateau  of  Normandy.  Complaint  was  at  length  made 
to  the  reigning  Duke — the  Countess  burnt,  and  her  lands  confis- 
cated.— La  Normandie  Romanesque  et  Merveilleuse.  Par  Mme 
Bosquet.    1845. 


L  e    Frauensand.  329 

Some  steered  for  the  coast  of  Africa,  to  purchase  gold 
and  ivory,  and  others  for  the  Indies,  to  bring  home  spices. 

A  year  passed,  and  twelve  of  her  ships  were  afloat 
upon  the  marriage  errand,  but  none  had  yet  returned. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  second  year,  there  came  to  Ba- 
thilda  a  new  applicant — unknown  to  the  people  of  Stavo- 
ren.  He  was  of  proud  and  noble  mein ;  he  sailed  with 
his  ship  up  the  Baltic,  and  landed  at  Dantzic.  Here  he 
caused  to  be  procured  the  largest  and  sweetest  grain  of 
all  that  region,  which  was  once  called  Poland. 

He  stowed  it  safely  in  his  vessel,  and  set  sail  for  Stavo- 
ren.  He  arrived  first  of  all,  in  the  eighth  month  of  the 
year.  Bathilda  came  down  to  the  port  in  her  riches! 
silks,  her  eye  flashing  in  expectation  of  finding  costly  jew- 
els and  gold  ;  and  when  she  saw  nothing  but  the  grain  of 
Dantzic,  she  howled  with  rage  and  disappointment. 

She  ordered  the  captain  to  appear,  «end  commanded 
him  to  throw  the  grain  into  the  sea.  He  refused,  and  ut- 
tering a  curse  upon  her  avarice,  which  made  her  cheeks 
blanch  with  terror,  he  withdrew  to  the  shore,  and  disap- 
peared. 

Bathilda,  ashamed  of  her  fright,  ordered  the  grain — 
sack  by  sack,  to  be  thrown  into  tl  e  sea.  The  poor  peo- 
ple collected  about  the  port,  and  implored  her  charity — 
mothers  brought  their  children,  who  plead  as  children 
will  plead — with  their  eyes,  and  their  little  hands  lifted 
up — for  some  of  the  precious  grain. 

Nothing  could  move  the  wicked  woman,  and  she  sta- 
tioned men   with  cutlasses — enioining  upon  them,  with 


330  Fresh   Gleanings. 

threats,  to  cut  off  the  hands  of  whoever  should  touch  e. 
kernel  of  the  accursed  corn. 

Two  days  she  stayed  upon  the  vessel,  to  see  the  work 
of  destruction  accomplished  ;  and  after  it,  as  the  last  sack 
fell  over  the  side,  there  arose  a  fearful  storm.  For  three 
days  the  winds  howled,  and  the  waters  roared,  and  the 
waves  were  heavy  and  thick  with  sand. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  another  of  Bathilda's 
ships  appeared  entering  the  harbor.  The  wind  was 
strong,  and  she  came  swiftly  up,  and  to  the  wonder  of  all 
— stranded,  where  was  ship  never  stranded  before — over 
the  spot  where  the  grain  had  fallen.  In  an  hour,  the  ves- 
sel was  a  wreck,  and  her  ruined  cargo  was  strewn  along 
the  shore. 

Day  by   day  the   sand   accumulated   over   the   fallen 

grain three  more  of  Bathilda's  ships  stranded  upon  it, 

and  were  lost.  None  of  the  twelve  ever  came  safely  back ; 
some  were  driven  upon  foreign  coasts  ;  two  were  cap- 
tured by  the  Moors,  and  one,  hearing  of  the  ruin  of  the 
harbor  of  Stavoren,  had  sold  its  cargo  in  a  foreign  port. 

Bathilda's  wealth  was  lost,  and  she  pawned  her  house 
and  jewels  for  bread,  and  these  failing,  died  at  length,  the 
miserable  victim  of  her  avarice  and  shame. 

As  the  sand  accumulated  in  the  harbor  of  Stavoren,  it 
was  observed  that  the  nearer  shore  sunk, — the  merchants 
moved  their  goods  to  other  cities,  and  gradually  the 
store -houses  of  Stavoren  sunk  under  the  waves.  Its  peo- 
ple— those  who  remained, — from  having  been  the  richest, 
became  the  poorest  in  all  Holland. 


My   Pipe   Gone   Out.  331 

No  ships  could  enter  their  port ; — their  boats  rotted  at 
the  wharves.  The  pile  of  sand  at  length  showed  itself 
above  the  water,  and  soon  there  grew  upon  it  a  false 
grain, — green  and  luxuriant. — but  without  either  blossom 
or  fruit* 

And  they  say  that  now — if  you  dig  deep  enough  in  Le 
Frauensand,  you  will  find  the  grain  of  Dantzic,  still  fresh 
and  plump. 


My   Pipe   Gone   Out. 

A  MSTERDAM  is  not  the  most  pleasant  place  in  the 
-*  -*-  world,  when  a  June  sun  is  shining  hot.  upon  the 
dead  water  of  its  canals,  and  their  green  surface  is  only 
disturbed  by  the  sluggish  barges,  or  the  slops  of  the  tidy 
house-maids. 

I  grew  tired  of  its  windmills,  and  clumsy  drawbridges, 
^and  tired  of  waiting  for  Cameron.  I  left  him  a  note 
at   the   Oude   Doelen,  telling  him  that  we  would   talk 


*  Wunderkorn — Dftnenhelm  (Arundo  arenaria)  a  species  of  reed 
not  very  unlike  wheat,  which  grows  upon  these  islands,  and  on  the 
Dunes  of  Holland.  By  its  roots  it  holds  the  sand  together,  and  pre- 
vents its  removal  by  wind  or  rain.  It  serves  the  same  office  with  the 
grass  cultivated  upon  Cape  Cod  {vid.  Dwight's  Travels).  The  germ 
of  the  story,  lies  in  an  old  popular  legend  of  Holland.  Orabner; 
Voyage  dans  le  Pays  Bas. 


332  Fresh    Gleanings. 

over  matters  some  day Heaven  grant   that  the  day 

some  time  come! — upon  the  green  banks  of  wild  Loch 
Oich. 

I  set  off  toward  Harlaem,  and  Leyden,  and  Historic 
Belgium. 

Not  a  tulip,  though,  did  I  bring  away  from  Har- 
laem— nor  any  thing  but  the  memory  of  the  music  of  its 
organ,  which  tingles  in  my  ear  now,  like  a  good  reading 
of  the  ballad  of  Chevy  Chace. 

Of  Leyden,  seated  in  the  rich,  flat  country,  nothing 
but  the  gray  walls  of  its  University,  rises  now  in  the 
wake  of  my  travel. 

La  Hague,  with  its  city-fed  storks  stalking  about  the 
market-place,  and  its  palaces  and  parks,  is  left  behind. 
And  Rotterdam,  with  its  high  windmills,  and  ships, 
and  filthy  canals,  and  clean  door-steps,  and  wharfage 
smells,  is  also  left ;  and  if  you  would  know  more  of  them, 
or  of  Dutch-land — read  the  books  of  stately  Silliman,  or 
of  biting  Beckford.* 

Meantime  I  am  gliding  down  one  of  the  winding 

branches  of  the  Scheldt  toward  the  commercial  capital  of 
Belgium. 

The  sun  shines  hot  upon  the  deck  of  the  little  steamer 


*  The  Journal  of  Professor  Silliman,  though  now  out  of  print,  and 
though  the  country  has  much  changed  since  the  book  was  written — 
I  yet  found  most  accurate  in  its  descriptions ;  Beckford — the  eccen- 
tric nabob  of  Bath  (author  of  Vathek)  has  shown  a  quick  eye  to  the 
peculiarities  of  this  peculiar  people. 


My    Pipe   Gone   Out.  333 

— and  hot  upon  the  still  surface  of  the  river, — and  hot 
upon  the  low  banks  covered  with  green  marsh  grass. 

The  windmills  of  Rotterdam  long  before  noon,  have 
faded  from  the  sight.  The  river  now  widens  to  a  sea, — 
and  now  narrows  to  a  strait.  Here  is  an  old  Dutch  fort 
with  red  brick  walls, — and  there  a  red-roofed  village 
lying  on  the  marshes.  After  noon  a  light  breeze  stirs, 
and  little  craft  are  making  sail  all  around  us.  Still  there 
is  no  cloud  to  shade  us,  and  no  trees  upon  the  shore. 

I  sit  under  the  awning — the  Dutchmen  around  me — 
puffing  quietly  at  the  same  pipe,  which  a  month  before,  I 
had  lighted  upon  the  Elbe. 

At  length,  five  hours  and  more  past  noon,  there  rose  up 
over  the  flat  country,  far  away  to  the  right,  the  top  of  the 
spire  of  the  Cathedral  of  Antwerp.  It  was  the  beacon  of 
a  new  kingdom.  And  straight — the  old  Belgic  cities 
ranged  around  me. 

I  had  not  seen  them,  then— so  the  images  were  vague 
and  uncertain,  but  wildly  pleasant ; — for  soon  I  would 

compare  them  with  what  was  real. Yet  what  more  real 

than  the  forms  of  things  that  Belgic  History  had  planted 
in  my  mind  ] 

There  was  a  Liege  of  my  own — the  Liege  of  the 
wicked  Bishop  of  Schonwaldt  (for  Scott  is  reliable  histoiy) 
— of  the  Wild  Boar  of  Ardennes,  and  of  the  hopeful 
Quentin  Durward, — as  real  to  me,  as  the  Belgic  Birm- 
ingham of  to-day. 

Ghent  was  before  me,  with  its  Burghers — so  stout  at 
the  Battle  of  the  Spurs, — and  so  submissive  to  Charles  V. 


334  Fresh   Gleanings. 

when  they  wore  halters  round  their  necks.  And  Van 
Arte  veldt — another  Cola  di  Rienzi — poured  that  elo- 
quence on  my  ear,  which  in  the  time  of  Edward  III.  *  set 
them  of  Ghent  on  fire.'  The  very  market-place,  the 
stadhuis,  the  streets — lay  mistily  before  me.  And  the 
stout  Flemings  came  up  from  the  dead  in  troops,  who  ki 
the  Old  Time  went  over  to  help  the  stout  Constable  of 
Chester,  against  the  fiery  Welchmen.* 

'  Fair  Bruges'  had  its  shadow  in  my  mind,  and  easy 
as  a  thought,  came  visions  of  its  fair-faced  girls.t  I  seem- 
ed to  see  the  Palace — the  old  Palace,  and  Barber  01iver,$ 
and  scheming  Louis  XI.,  and  Charles  the  Bold,  and — 
pleasanter  vision,  and  lingering  longer  than  any — sweet 
Mary  of  Burgundy,  with  the  falcon  sitting  proudly  on  her 
jewelled  finger. 

Now  the  scene  of  this  thick   host  of  memories, 

which  through  the  whole  past  time  of  my  life,  had  been 
shadowy,  and  uncertain,  and  changeful, — within  one  short 
week  would  become  definite  and  fixed ; — no  more  dreams 
— no  more  shadows  thereafter.  But  the  new  scene  that 
so  soon  was  to  fasten  itself  upon  my  brain,  would  never 


*  Vid.  Scott's  story  of  the  "  Betrothed." 

t  Bruges  is  famous  for  its  pretty  women; — thus  an  old  verse  says: 
Gandavum  laqueis,  formosis  Burga  puellis. 

The  allusion  in  laqueis  is  to  the  halters  worn  by  the  Burghers  of 
Ghent,  in  obedience  to  command  of  Charles  V. 

t  Vid.  Anquetil,  Hist,  de  France.  Siecle  de  Louis  XL  Also  see 
James's  romance  of  Mary  of  Burgundy. 


Homeward.  335 

change,  and  —  blessed  be  Heaven  !  —  it  would  never 
fade. 

My  whiffs  were  growing  more  and  more  earnest, — but 
there  was  now  no  smoke. My  pipe  with  the  Dutch- 
men was  ended. 

I  knocked  out  the  ashes,  and  put  the  pipe  carefully  in 
my  pocket,  and  in  a  half  hour  more,  was  strolling  with  a 
dreamy  gladness,  in  the  rough,  narrow  streets — under  the 
long,  evening  shadows  of  the  Cathedral  of  Antwerp. 


Homeward. 

rjELGIUM  passed  like  a  wild  dream — full  of  brill- 
-*-*    iancies  and  shadows. 

Then,  I  went  sailing  under  the  skirts  of  ancient  towns 
— under  vine-covered  cliffs,  and  among  pleasant  islands, 
— upon  the  waters  of  the  Rhine.  Up  and  down  its 
bounding  current,  by  night  and  by  day — I  sailed. 

In  the  day,  the  waters  were  bright,  and  there  was  the 
loud  hum  of  busy  cities  by  the  shore ; — in  the  night,  the 
cities  were  dark  and  silent  as  the  dead,  and  the  waters 
were  flecked  with  red  furnace  fires,  or  blazed  upon  with 
the  white  light  of  God's  moon. 

Great  and  glorious  Cathedrals  rose  up,  and  faded 
away  behind  ; — barge-bridges  opened — and  closed  again  ; 
mountains  grew  great,  and  frowned, — and  grew  smaller, 
and  smiling,  left  us  ; — echoes  rang,  and  fainted  ; — songs 


336  Fresh    Gleanings. 

of  peasant  girls  came  to  our  ears,  and  died  in  the  rust- 
ling current.  Towns, — vineyards, — ruins  came  and  went, 
and  I  was  journeying  through  France  again. 

The  people  were  gathering  the  sheaves  of  Harvest,  and 
the  grapes  were  purpling  on  every  hill-side.,  for  the  vintage. 

Again  the  enchanting  City,  and  the  winding  Seine ; 

Lillebonne,  and  most  beautiful  Caudebec, — and  I  was  by 
the  edge  of  the  Ocean  once  more. 

Then  came  the  quick,  sharp  bustle  of  departure,  and  the 
fading  shores.  My  straining  eye  held  upon  them  tear- 
fully, until  the  night  stooped  down,  and  covered  them. 

With  morning,  came  Sky  and  Ocean.  And  this  petted 
eye,  which  had  rioted  in  the  indulgence  of  new  scenes, 
each  day,  for  years,  was  now  starved  in  the  close-built 
dungeon  of  a  ship — with  nothing  but  Sky  and  Ocean. 
Week  followed  week — still  nothing  but  Sky  and  Ocean : 

before  us — behind  us — around  us — nothing  but  Sky 

and  Ocean.  But — thanks  to  this  quick-working  memory 
— through  the  livelong  days,  and  the  wakeful  nights,  my 
fancy  was  busy  with  pictures  of  countries,  and  the  images 
of  nations. 

Yet,  ever,  through  it  all — Mary — the  burden  of 

my  most  anxious  thought,  was  drifting,  like  a  sea-bound 
river Homeward. 


Tsb   End. 

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